Lalaith Elerrina, Child of the Stars
by LalaithElerrina
Summary: Lalaith is called upon to test herself and prove her strength as Frodo and Sam, far away, struggle toward Mount Doom to destroy the One Ring and save the world. What sacrifices she is called upon to make, not even she could have foreseen...
1. Prologue

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Prologue**

**March 17, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars

Prologue

Lalaith sighed in her half-conscious sleep. She shifted her weight where she lay upon a tumbled pile of rough stones within a ragged gouge that the Ents had torn from the wall surrounding the shallow swamp that was all that remained within the ring of Isengard. Her hands were folded beneath her head where she rested, and she frowned softly to herself, feeling a sudden cold tremor, accompanied by a slight twinge in the back of her right shoulder. Something evil was nearby. Shaking her head, she brought her focus back to the waking world, and glanced toward the black tower of Orthanc that rose above the muck of the quagmire like a towering island of black stone while Treebeard and the other Ents waded about beneath it. That was it of course, she answered herself. Saruman was near. He was still alive, and entrenched inside Orthanc. Tipping her head back upon her hands, she sighed, and returned to the warmth of her dreams.

And as had happened before several times in the past days since the Fellowship had been broken, she found her mind's sight flying low over the ground, beyond the ring of Isengard, over the forest, and the plain, and once again to the great fortress against the cliff that she had seen before. Little had changed, except for a row of newly turned mounds aligned along the foot of one of the high, sheer cliffs.

_Graves._ Lalaith realized somberly. Of Men, and also of Elves, perhaps. For Lothirien would not have been the only Elf to come from Lothlórien to aid the Men of Rohan. She wondered as a distant coldness touched her heart, if there were any beneath these mounds she had known. The sight of her mind came to rest on a space between two graves, where yet another mound should have been, and she wondered. For the earth looked as if it had been raised at one time in a mound. But recently, perhaps in only hours past, it had been turned aside. For the newly disturbed earth appeared still moist. Some great force, as if the very hand of one of the Valar, had pushed the mound upward from the inside out, turning the earth to one side and the other, and leaving a shallow pit the length of a grown Man, or Elf. But the pit was empty. Lalaith wondered at what this could mean, and marveled even more that two bright dots of color, a pair of small golden flowers growing at the edge of the shallow cavity had not been torn up and cast aside. Instead, they remained rooted firmly in the soft ground, waving serenely and undisturbed in a gentle breeze. And though she did not know why, the sight of the brave little flowers brought a wave of comforting warmth to Lalaith's heart.

"_I wish for Haldir to go back as well, my lord._" A voice that was as her own sounded within her dreams, as from a distant memory. But she could not place where she had spoken it, and a vague image of faces, dearly loved and forgotten, filtered through her sleeping mind.

"_It is a heavy thing you ask, young one. Even for you_." A voice answered, unknown to her, yet still familiar.

"_But it can be done, if it is Ilúvatar's will. Lord Glorfindel is a living witness of that_."

"_But even so, such a thing cannot come without a heavy price_."

"_Haldir is my friend, and he bears an honorable heart. Whatever the cost, I will pay it_."

"_Young one_," the man's voice became grave and heavy, "_were you to return now, you would go with all your memories of this land. You would return trailing the glory of the Valar in your wake, with the powers of your father, and your mother, and of all your kin. But if you wish for this son of Ilúvatar's firstborn to return as well, you must sacrifice all that. You will return as you were, forgetting all that happened here, and bearing no more power than what you bear in the strength of your arm_."

Lalaith frowned, sensing that in a time forgotten, she had felt a moment of hesitation, realizing what such power could do for the war against Sauron. But-, Haldir was her friend. Even in his greatest foolishness, he had always been honorable, and well-intentioned. And Lothirien, no matter the depth of the pain she must have suffered, had never grown bitter or unkind. Lalaith owed this to them both. Especially now, as she remembered that day upon Amon Hen, when she held the One Ring within her hand, when she had come so close to succumbing to its temptation. How would she wield such Valaric power within her frail, untried hands upon Arda, so far from the light and grace of Valinor? Would she be as her parents and her kin, or would she be as Melkor? Would such power do more harm than good? The risk that she could fall, as weak and untested as she yet was, was too great for her liking.

"_I am not ready for such power yet_." She had said at last, her voice firm. "_I will gladly pay the price that you exact of me, to return Haldir to Lothirien. And who knows, but that he is needed there, still_?"

A long moment passed, and upon the faces that floated within her half forgotten memories, she saw smiles of pride. "_You are a wise one for you age, young Elerrina. As we knew you would be._" The man's voice said at last. "_I will do as you have bidden. Do not despair, for one day you will be ready-,_"

"Oi, Lalaith, sleepy head!" A voice bright and near called out to her, as several bulbous objects tumbled down upon her stomach.

Shaking her head and jerking upright, Lalaith glared at Pippin as his rosy face came into focus. His little pipe was clenched firmly between his teeth, trailing a cloud of smoke upward as he grinned down at her.

"Silly Hobbit." She scowled, though she laughed as she spoke. "What are you doing, attacking a defenseless maiden while she is sleeping?"

"Apples!" He chirped, emitting bursts of smoke from his lips like a smithy's chimney. "Merry and I found `em. Thought you might be hungry."

"Famished." She admitted as she snatched up an apple in her hands, and bit furiously through its tender peel, not realizing until now, how empty her stomach had become. Ent draught had been nourishing, but not as filling as solid food, and she devoured the apple greedily.

"And we found some Longbottom leaf, too." Merry grinned from behind Pippin, somewhat breathless as he struggled up the rocky gouge in the wall to the level place where Lalaith sat. He offered her a self-satisfied grin as he puffed away on his own little pipe. "The finest weed in the South Farthing."

"Mm," Lalaith muttered, tossing away her stripped apple core, and snatching up another of the round red fruits as she rose to her feet. She arched her back with a soft groan, still feeling the points of the hard stones she had been resting against. "Aragorn is quite fond of it as well."

"Ah, our young Valië." A resonant voice boomed from nearby as Treebeard strode near, his gangly wooden legs sloshing through the tepid bog. "We had wondered," he breathed sonorously, "when you would waken. Quickbeam was becoming somewhat anxious."

Lalaith shaded her eyes, and glanced out at the forest of Ents that strode about through the murky lake. She found the hasty young Ent easily, for he moved more quickly than the others, and gave him a wave of her arm. An Entish smile split the smooth bark of Bregalad's features as the young Ent raised a long, leafy limb and waved back, to which Lalaith smiled.

But a moment later her smile grew into a somber line as she peered past the youthful Ent's knobby shoulder to a spot of clear silvery color upon the slick black stone steps of Orthanc. Laying against the steps only a few paces down from Saruman's forbidding doorway, lay the little star-woven blanket from Valinor. Dropped by Pippin when he had fallen into the flood, and laying in a tumbled mass now where it had been washed up upon the ragged steps, a smudge of color against the black stone of the cold, dark tower.

"Pippin, are you all right?" Lalaith whispered fiercely as the Hobbit beside her stumbled over a submerged log, creating a soft splash and ripples in the tepid murk that reached his waist as the Elf and Hobbit waded closer to the black blot against the night sky, that was Orthanc.

"I'm fine." The young Hobbit muttered, pausing a moment as he gained his balance once again.

Still, Lalaith gazed worriedly over the half drenched Hobbit. This was not the first time he had stumbled since they had left Merry sleeping upon the broken wall, and set out beneath the bright stars overhead that lit their way across the treacherous quagmire. Pippin's footing was far from graceful as he struggled over the submerged flotsam, the remnants of Saruman's great machines that protruded like grotesque skeletons upward out of the muddy water, some sinisterly half submerged, which even Lalaith had difficulty detecting.

"You didn't have to come with me, Pippin." Lalaith offered, catching him gently by the arm, and half lifting him over the ragged slats of splintered wood that had once been scaffolding for one of Saruman's great wooden wheels. "It was hardly your fault that it was dropped. You were falling into a raging flood, after all! You shouldn't feel responsible. I have no wish for you or Merry, or any of the Ents to trouble yourselves with this."

"But I should help to get it back. It's only right." Pippin insisted.

"But this could be dangerous." Lalaith returned. "This swamp is treacherous enough, without giving thought to what creatures might yet linger about in the tower. Who knows what could be watching us from up there-," She lifted her gaze upward, her eyes trailing over the harsh, sharp lines of the great tower of Orthanc that seemed to have been carved from one vast shard of basalt. Her eyes came to rest upon the shadowed balcony that stood over the doorway at the crest of the high stone steps, and a shadow, half unseen, flitted back into the darker shadows as Lalaith's eyes came to rest upon it. She shuddered as at a cold chill. But perhaps it had only been her imagination, she assured herself. And Saruman would not dare anything, not with the Ents so nearby.

"All the more reason for _me_ to go with you." Pippin grinned, thrusting his shoulders stoutly back, and lifting his chin in what was meant to be a manly, protective posture, but only made Lalaith duck her head in order to stifle a laugh.

His sentiments were well meant, she assured herself, and it would not do to hurt his feelings.

"Well, here we are," Lalaith sighed, stopping where the water lapped at the carven steps that let upward out of the swampy mire.

"There it is, I'll fetch it for you." Pippin chirped as he sloshed out of the water, and began up the steps toward the little blanket that lay almost forlornly out of place against the cruel stone, only a few steps beneath Saruman's door.

"Be careful, Pip." Lalaith quipped, starting after him, her softer steps silent in comparison to his wet, flopping feet, the water dripping off his clothes, and tumbling in small cascades down the steps behind him.

Upward Lalaith crept, wincing at Pippin's every squelching step. But she smiled in tentative relief when Pippin at last reached the rumpled sliver cloth and picked it up. He turned with a beaming smile, and proudly lifted the little square of cloth like a trophy before he started back down.

But Lalaith's relieved smile swiftly turned to a gasp of despair as the door behind him swung open upon silent hinges emitting a hissing wind, cold and sharp as if it were the breath of an undead thing.

Pippin had felt the eruption of frigid air as well, and he paused in his descent, his own expression growing to a flinch of fear as he turned and saw, as Lalaith did, two shadowed figures emerge into the starlight as it streamed from above. One was a woman, a mortal she appeared to be, long dark hair cascading to a slender waist. Her gown was of dark rich linen, and her eyes, even in this darkness, were filled with a clear, cold light.

"Stop that little creature, Burza. I want to see what it is." She said in a voice that was at once both musical and icy. And at her command, the shadow at her side, a half hunched thing, with ragged black hair, its narrow frame dressed in tattered dirty rags, galloped down the steps toward Pippin.

Lalaith's heart jumped into her throat. The creature was an orc, she realized, and at that realization, she leapt into motion, flying up the steps, hoping to reach the Hobbit before the orc did.

But it was too near him. It snatched Pippin beneath his arms and seized him up, eliciting a terrified cry from the young Hobbit, who struggled and kicked to no avail.

"Stop, Elf." The woman ordered calmly, coming sedately down the steps, pausing only a step above the orc that still held Pippin as he whined and struggled. "If you come closer, I'll have my servant kill him."

This threat stopped Lalaith mid-leap, and she slowed and stopped, gasping from her steep sprint, still several steps beneath the orc who held Pippin as he kicked and cursed, biting now at the orc's arms that held him.

"Let him go." Lalaith demanded. A burning pain throbbed in her shoulder, but she barely noticed it in her fear for Pippin. "He's of no use to you. He's but a harmless Hobbit."

"A Hobbit is he? One of the little folk from the West?" The woman asked, her words light and trivial. She glided nearer to Pippin, and ran her fingers lightly over his face and through his hair.

"Don't you touch me!" Pippin barked, snapping at her hand.

"Mm. Feisty little creatures, Hobbits." She murmured, snatching her hand back from the reach of Pippin's teeth. "What is it that you have there? Ah, a little blanket?" She laughed lightly, her voice as the tinkling of small bells. "Let me see it, Burza."

At this order, the orc wrenched the blanket from Pippin's grasp, and held it out to her mistress.

"Ah, how very-," the woman's expression changed, the moment her hands touched the cloth.

"_Aya_!" She snapped, flinging it back so that it struck the orc in the face before it tumbled down upon the steps at her feet. "What did you weave into its fibers? Metal splinters?" She demanded, glancing at her fine, smooth hands as if she expected to see them bleeding.

"Let him go." Lalaith demanded through clenched teeth. "He is of no use to you."

"But why are you here?" The woman said with a gentled tone, though she was still clearly shaken by the painful touch of the cloth against her hands. She floated down the steps toward Lalaith, the train of her gown trailing smoothly behind her as she came, reminding Lalaith of a spider gliding smoothly over its web, toward its ensnared prey. "You are the second Elf I have met in but a few days, and I am curious, especially seeing how you are a woman, yet dressed in a man's garb." She laughed lightly. "What is your quest?"

"I owe you no answer." Lalaith spouted, glancing past her shoulder at the orc, a female, who had hefted Pippin over her shoulder, his furry feet still flailing as energetic curses continued to spout forth from his mouth.

"You owe me an answer if you want your dear Hobbit to live." The woman said in tones of light triviality.

"Don't tell her anything, Lalaith!" Pippin shouted as he flailed upon the orc's shoulder.

At Pippin's words, a slow look of sinister satisfaction claimed the mortal's face, and she drew a few steps closer, hissing in quiet tones, "Lalaith is your name? I have heard it spoken before." Her eyes narrowed coldly as a fierce, deadly light entered her gaze, "You are the one Legolas told me about?"

She smiled all the more harshly at the maiden's baffled expression.

Lalaith began, "How do you know-,"

"I met him. In Rohan." The woman sighed, smiling lightly. "He came with some other companions. A ranger from the North, a Dwarf, and-," the woman shuddered before she rallied herself, and smiled again. "Were you companions perhaps, before misfortune separated you?"

Her last words were spoken as if meant to sound sympathetic. But her eyes held no trace of compassion.

"He is a remarkable man, Legolas." She continued as her grin grew sickeningly sweet. "Gentle in one moment, yet passionate in the next." She smirked, and drew yet another step closer, reminding Lalaith of a warg moving upon its prey for the final death blow as she whispered, "Your lives are endless, yet you can give your hearts so swiftly."

At this Lalaith glanced away, a look of confusion furrowing her smooth brow as a twinge of unease plucked at her heart.

"We knew each other for only one day, yet his voice when he sang to me," the woman smiled softly and closed her eyes as at a fond memory, "he made it seem as if we had known each other for eternity. And the night that we spent together-,"

"You are a liar." Lalaith growled, not realizing until she heard her own voice, how violently she was trembling.

"Am I?" The woman asked, her words viciously sweet. "Or is it naught but that you are jealous, for I bedded him first?"

"You did not _bed_ him!" Lalaith cried, a heavy weight writhing like a worm in her stomach at the woman's flippant words. "Legolas would not give himself to someone as vile as you!" Her voice shook, and she feared she would break into tears. But she dared not, sensing that this woman would see tears only as weakness, and attack all the more ferociously. "He would never do anything so unholy, not with such a- a _harlot_ as you, banished from Rohan, no doubt, to come crawling to Saruman, a betrayer of your own people!" She started up a step before she stopped at the woman's threatening glance back at Pippin, who was wailing incessantly now as he struggled to free himself.

"Unholy you say?" The mortal scoffed turning back to sneer at Lalaith. "Do you think so highly of your own race? Do you truly think your people so above vices?" She smirked. "Do forgive me, then. For perhaps the bloody kinslayings of history are no more than hideous rumors. Fëanor could have been nothing but loyal to his kinsmen. And Ëol was kindly and virtuous, one who would never take a defenseless maiden by force!"

The mortal woman's eyes narrowed cruelly as she spat, "And do you truly wish for me to think _you_ a maiden? Untouched for all the countless years you have known Legolas, wanting him so badly that your very flesh _ached_ for him?"

"We agreed to wait until we were wed." Lalaith murmured quietly, glancing away as a soft sob broke past her lips. The pain that throbbed upon her shoulder now, was nothing to what she felt upon her aching heart.

The mortal sneered with satisfaction as she watched a single tear, touched by the light of the stars, trail a silver line down Lalaith's cheek.

"Burza," she muttered in a low hiss, her eyes studying Lalaith's with an unreadable expression, "snap his neck."

"_No_!" Lalaith shrieked suddenly. The heaviness that weighted her limbs was overcome by a wave of fear for Pippin that crashed over her, and she darted up the steps, shoving roughly past the mortal woman, who watched her go, smiling. The female orc was holding Pippin by his shoulders, studying his small round Hobbit face with what seemed to be an expression of hesitation as he swore at her, thrashing his legs out at the orc in an attempt to kick his way free.

"Vile spawn of Morgoth!" Lalaith cried. "Get away from him!"

She shoved the orc backward pulling Pippin to herself before she felt a fist seize the unbound tresses of her hair and rip backward, flinging her roughly upon the unforgiving stone steps. Pippin fell from her arms, tumbling noisily down the steps to land with a splash in the water as the mortal woman threw herself at the maiden. Her cold hands encircled Lalaith's slender throat, crushing it beneath the vice of her fingers. Beneath Lalaith, the sharp points of the steps dug cruelly into her back as she struggled. And above her, the mortal's face was twisted horribly with abject hatred; her eyes had turned to raging flame. Lalaith's hands clutching at her wrists could do nothing to pry the mortal's hands from her throat, and she did not doubt but that the mortal meant to squeeze all the life from her. Her lungs burned, starved for the air that was crushed away, and a wild, raw panic threatened to force thought from her mind. The woman sneered, sensing Lalaith's fear, and squeezed ever tighter. Sparks danced in front of her vision, and Lalaith had to force herself to think. Her first instinct was to continue clutching desperately at the mortal's wrists. But the woman's grip was like steel. Desperately, Lalaith pulled one hand away, and though the crushing pressure upon her throat only increased, Lalaith forced calm into her mind, twisted herself almost double as she snatched for her boot, and before her adversary realized what she was doing, used what remained of her strength to snatch her tiny knife from its sheath, and slash it across the woman's forearm, eliciting a cry of pain and rage as she flung herself away.

A wild breath tore into her lungs as the pressure on Lalaith's throat vanished, and she scrambled dizzily to her feet, gulping in draughts of burning ice with every hungry gasp. With fierce effort, she fixed her gaze upon the mortal woman who cradled her bleeding arm against herself, trembling with fury, though she hesitated to attack now, fear in her eyes as her gaze darted from Lalaith's face, to the knife in her hand, and back again.

"_You rotten wench_!" Pippin, shouted as he came scampering up the steps fully drenched, his face furrowed with determination. "Get away from her!"

The mortal glanced down at Pippin as he came, an almost humored expression on her face as she glanced back at Lalaith and sneered.

"We will meet again, you and I." She said softly for only Lalaith to hear. And with these words, she turned away with a soft whisper of her skirts and moved with unhurried calm up the steps, and through the door as her orcish servant Burza, shuffled in behind her.

"It's alright, Pip." Lalaith gasped, snatching the determined Hobbit by the shoulders when he reached her. She gently pulled him back before he could fling himself through the doorway as it closed with a shudder. "Let's go back."

Greta scowled from the shadows of Saruman's balcony as she watched the Elf and Hobbit pick their way across the swampy morass of Isengard as the stars watched silently overhead. She frowned at the stars. Greta had never liked the sight of the night sky. Too high and lofty the stars had always seemed. Never swayed from their course, never something Greta could twist into what she wanted. And now she despised them all the more. For the eerie sense that their light seemed to follow the Elf maiden as she went, settled over Greta like a heavy pall.

Behind her, with her focus upon the Elf and Hobbit, Greta did not see Burza as the orc cast a wary glance at her mistress then tucked a hand into a fold of her ragged garmet, and drew out, for a moment, a folded square of silvery cloth, before swiftly tucking it back in again.

"Burza." Greta clipped darkly, turning at last from the sight of the despised Elf maid and her little consort, snatching the orc's stringy dark hair. "You were useless to me." She shoved the orc onto the cold floor, and kicked her cruelly in the side. "You should have killed them both when you had the chance."

"He was little." Burza croaked, flinching as she struggled to rise. "Like a baby. And she-, her eyes were-, pretty."

Greta stared at the simpering orc with an expression of momentary shock on her face before she uttered a harsh laugh.

"Now I understand why Saruman gave you to me, worthless little worm. What a fool you are! Have you naught but flowers in your blood? You should have drowned with the others of your kind."

"I rather drown too." Burza answered lamely, as she regained her feet, to which she received a lashing hand across her face. The orc remained silent, accustomed to beatings.

"Foolish orc." Greta snapped harshly. "No go fetch me a drink, worthless filth, before I hit you again!"

With that, Burza bobbed her head and wordlessly scurried away.

Greta glared after the orc's retreat, then turned to cast her eyes about the room, seeking some way to vent the hatred she felt upon the fair maiden who truly held Legolas' affection. Her eyes came to rest upon the dais in the center of the room, and the round black stone that sat within its center. A maddened sneer peeled across her lips, and she strode to it, seized up the great stone in both hands, lunged out upon the balcony, and lobbed it over the balustrade.

It arched through the night air, sparks of red light flashing from beneath its glassy surface as it plummeted downward, smacking the surface of the watery bog, with a loud splash. It sunk quickly into the murk far beneath the balcony where Greta stood, and well short of her target.

At the sound, the Elf turned slightly. Her shadowed, saddened eyes lifted to Greta's for a moment before she turned away again, and continued to pick her way carefully across the wet bog.

With a wild groan of fury, Greta threw her arms up, and stormed back into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 1

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 1**

**March 23, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 1

Arod's hooves picked his way lightly over the jutting roots upon the barely visible path as Legolas atop his back, let him pick his own course. He barely paid heed to Gimli behind him, for the Dwarf, to his credit, had become more comfortable on Arod's back, and did not crush Legolas' breath from him as he used to. The forest that seemed to watch them as they went, towered above them and about them, warm and humid, with a vague murmur that ran through the trees, as of watchful, steady breathing.

The feeling would have been almost eerie, but for his anticipation that caused his heart to leap wildly in his chest whenever the thought came to him. Lalaith was near. He could sense it. He was drawing closer to her with every step Arod took. In only a short time, they would be together again. He would feel the reality of her in his arms again, for no longer would she be a mere dream. It had seemed like years since he had held her last upon the banks of the Anduin. So much had happened since then. So much he had to tell her, and she, especially with the two young Hobbits having been her companions these last days, would doubtless have many stories to tell him.

After all the sleepless nights he had spent worrying about her, dreaming so vividly of her, yet knowing they were not truly together, their reunion would be a joyful one. He drew in a breath imagining the delighted light of her smile when they met at last. When they found themselves, once again in each other's arms.

Legolas smiled, thinking of the shocked look that would come upon young Éomer's usually somber face at this sudden and unexpected display of Elven emotion. The young Third Marshal of the Mark knew little of their race, and had until now, only seen Elves at their grimmest need, upon the plains of Rohan, and in battle at Helm's Deep. Legolas chuckled softly to himself, imagining Éomer's jaw falling slack at the display of merriment of which Lalaith was so capable.

"What're you laughing about?" Muttered Gimli from his place behind him.

"Nothing." Legolas returned lightly. "I am only looking forward to telling Lalaith of our final count."

Gimli made an unpleasant noise in his throat at these words. "Are you still sore that I beat you by one?"

"Our final score was even. Forty-three, each." Legolas stated firmly and smiled, turning his gaze into the trees.

"Of all the confounded Elvish pride!" Gimli grumbled loudly. "As I distinctly recalling having told you before, _several_ times, that last orc was already dead!"

"Gentlemen," Aragorn's voice, carrying a gentle warning, called out to the arguing pair.

"It was twitching." Legolas finished, his voice a firm whisper.

"Did you miss the small detail that was my _axe_ sticking out of its head?" Gimli grated through clenched teeth. And to this, Legolas remained silent. But it was not because of the Dwarf's reprimand. For off in the trees, beneath the green muted shadows of the distance, there were eyes watching him, golden eyes that were filled with the wisdom of ages beyond recall.

"I see eyes in the trees!" Legolas called to the others, furrowing his brow as the watchful golden eyes disappeared from his sight for a moment as he turned Arod's head off the trail.

"Oh, no you don't!" Gimli crowed in protest. "You'll not be going off after any eyes in the forest while I'm your passenger."

Reluctantly, Legolas drew up on Arod's reins, bringing him up short. With a nudge, he turned him again back upon the trail as the Dwarf behind him uttered a breathy sigh of relief.

"And Lalaith's not that way, anyway." Gimli muttered, half to himself.

Legolas could not help but smile at the mention of her name, and behind him, Gimli chuckled softly, sensing the Elf's anticipation.

"She'll be glad to see you too, Lad." Gimli assured him, his gruff voice growing gentle.

"I have so much to tell her." Legolas breathed, smiling as the shadows of the trees passed over them. "Of Rohan, and of Helm's Deep." He sighed low, as a somber thought came upon him, "and I shall have to tell her of Boromir and of Haldir. She will take the news hard, I fear." A shadow passed over his heart, darker than the first. "And I must tell her of Greta-,"

"Agh, but what's there to fear?" Grumbled Gimli. "_You_ didn't do anything! That strumpet got better than she deserved. Banishment? Phrr."

As he said these words, a spear of light cut down upon the winding path where the horse's hooves trod softly, and the trees parted at last, revealing a high wall, through broken where they stood, a great cracked gouge where two small child sized figures sat leaning upon ragged stones, leisurely smoking away at their small pipes, expressions of complete contentment upon their faces. About them were strewn the remains of a fine feast, gnawed apples cores, scattered bones of fowl, and half empty wine bottles amongst other scattered remnants.

Legolas' heart leapt. If Pippin and Merry were here, then Lalaith was sure to be nearby.

One of the Hobbits looked up at their approach, Merry, and after a hurried second glance, he leaped up, straightening his waistcoat as best as he could at the sight of them. Pippin, cast them a glance and grinned, though he remained sitting happily where he was.

"Welcome, my lords to Isengard!" Merry drawled, indicated that he was somewhat intoxicated. A small grin touched Legolas' face in spite of himself.

"Pah!" Gimli cried at the sight of them. "A merry chase you led us on! And here we find you, feasting, and-, and _smoking_!"

A low murmur of soft laughter ran through their small group, before Legolas at last, stood in the stirrups, and unable to hide the eager tones from his voice called out, "Where's Lalaith?"

"Up there!" Pip called, pointing up the ragged, almost sheer rock face to the ledge of the unbroken wall above them. "But she's um-," Pippin faltered and cast what seemed to be a look of worry mixed with confusion at Legolas. "I _think_ she'll be glad to see you."

Legolas leapt eagerly from Arod's back, in spite of the unease Pippin's words caused him, and scrambled lightly up to the ragged tear in the wall where the Hobbits stood. And with the inborn grace of his people, and a hunger to see his love at last, he lightly and swiftly scaled the rocky slope of wall to the crest. The top of the wall was wide and flat where Lalaith stood facing away from him, her back straight, her hands hanging heavily beside her as she gazed at the rising sun in the east.

Her hair hung unbound down her back in a shimmering mass, still beautiful in spite of the fact that it had not seen a brush since Lothlórien. She barely moved, but for her soft breathing, and Legolas smiled, swallowing a soft lump in his throat. How he would always remember this moment, seeing her like this, the morning sun catching her hair, all in peaceful repose.

"So here you are." He called at last, the words sweet on his tongue as he reached out, and touched lightly, the soft curve of her shoulder.

"Legolas?" She asked, stiffening at his touch, and Legolas furrowed his brow and drew his hand back, tipping his head in a silent question at the ragged, fragile tones of her voice as she turned to him, her brilliant eyes finding his, as beautiful as they had ever been, though they shimmered with unshed tears. Tears that Legolas sensed with growing alarm, were not happy ones.

"_Lalaith nin_." Legolas murmured. His arms ached to draw her to him, to bring a smile to her face, to taste the joy of her eager kisses. Yet something in her eyes pushed him back. Gently he whispered, "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Legolas." Lalaith sighed, shaking her head and struggling to offer him a brave smile, though her lower lip trembled softly as she did. "Nothing should be. You are here, safe, in spite of my worst fears. And my heart tells me that everything she said, was a lie. Still yet-," Her eyes studied his own, breaking his heart with the wretched pain they carried. "Everything is wrong. How could she know so many things about you, about me, unless-,"

"What do you mean, _everything_ is wrong?" He breathed softly, his heart beginning to pound with painful throbs at her broken words, fraught with misery.

"Because," she sighed raggedly, her eyes dropping away, "you are not one to do such a thing, frivolously. You must feel _something_ for her. And after all you said, claiming that I am too far above you, it _could_ be true. And if it is true, then I have lost _everything_."

Legolas furrowed his brow, pleading with her with his eyes, his heart burdened with questions he did not know how to even begin to ask.

"Do you not understand, Legolas?" She asked, her words soft and agonized. "I could let you go, feeling some peace, if I knew you would be happy. If she spoke the truth Legolas, then-," She drew in a ragged breath and finished, impassioned, "Then the one your heart has chosen, does not love you back! It was all a lie. All of it!"

At Lalaith's words, Legolas heart stopped upon a beat, only to resume at a furious pace, each ragged beat tearing his heart as he tried in vain to deny what he had just heard.

He gulped, feeling his face grow ashen as he studied the look of misery upon the face of the maiden before him. He loved Lalaith. With all that he was, and all that he ever would be, he loved her. He would stay at her side, though all the powers of Morgoth sought to destroy her. He would die for her, if he was called upon to do so. How could she say, with her own lips, that she did not love him?

But they were _betrothed_! He reminded himself desperately, grasping at that thought, as a drowning man snatches at shreds of straw. She had told him that she loved him, she had promised herself to him, in what seemed an age before. The memory of her softness in his arms, the thrill the touch of her brought to him, her kisses, moist and sweet like summer fruit, wafted warmly through his mind.

Yet upon the heels of these tender memories followed the cold, bleak reminder of his rebuff in Lothlórien. When he had learned of her divine origin, and believed himself unworthy of her. She had tried so many times to reclaim him only to be denied, that he had lost count. His apology to her upon the banks of the Anduin had been unfulfilled, and perhaps she had not understood what he had tried to say to her. Was he too late now? Had she given up on him at last?

Legolas struggled to remember all the words she had spoken to him, in the last few moments. But most of her words were a haze now, their meanings vague, lost in a jumble within his mind. Forgotten beneath the weight of the last words she said, the words that rang loudly again like a death knell. Their meaning was clear. "_The one your heart has chosen, does not love you back! It was all a lie. All of it!_"

As these words tore anew at the already jagged wounds upon his heart, Legolas released a ragged breath, and dropped his eyes to the cold cruel stone beneath his feet.


	3. Chapter 2

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 2**

**April 5, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 2

Hasufel grazed leisurely upon the rich, moist grass, huffling contently to himself as he nibbled at the rich grazing he'd found since coming to this lovely paradise. Though tall trees, higher than his craning neck could see, covered this new land where he found himself, they did not seem to block out the light. Light came from everywhere in this land, among this kindly gentle people, who smelled of age and wisdom beyond recall, yet seemed not old. The grazing here, was rich and good, yet the horse found himself wanting something. He missed Rohan. He missed the wild, windy plains, the sweet, musky scent of Men, and the thrill of battle charges.

Though this blessed land was peaceful and safe, Hasufel could taste a tang in the air, whenever the wind changed. His home was still in danger, Hasufel knew it, and he wanted to return. But he would not go, he promised himself, unless the fair, sad lady to whom he had pledged his service, did not need him anymore.

_Greetings, my friend._

Hasufel lifted his head abruptly at the gentle greeting spoken to his mind, and turned to see someone, one of the men of these kindly people, standing before him, a smile upon his face, and a wise light within his eyes. He seemed to have a golden aura about him as he stepped forward, and placed a gentle hand upon the horse's nose. Warm his hand seemed, like a touch of sunlight, and Hasufel's heart gladdened as he nickered happily, and stepped forward to nudge his new friend in the chest.

His new friend laughed softly, and spoke again, his words echoed gently in the horse's mind. _I am Haldir. I have come to thank you for you faithful care of my lady._

Oh? He was her mate, then? But she had said he was gone. That she would not see him again, on this side of the great water. But he was here all the same, and Hasufel was glad, for he had sensed the lady's sadness was because her mate had gone away.

_I have come to release you, to send you back home, for that is where you heart longs to be, does it not?_ His new friend Haldir said gently as Hasufel felt a bit slide gently into his mouth.

It was indeed, Hasufel found himself agreeing silently, sliding his tongue experimentally over the bit, as the weight of a blanket and a saddle settled upon his back.

_You are needed there._ Haldir admonished him. _An Elf maiden, Lalaith, will require your aid. I want you to go to Rohan, for she will be there. Seek her out, and help her, as you can._

Hasufel tossed his head eagerly. That was a task he could happily carry out.

_There. You are ready._ Haldir stepped back, smiling as Hasufel turned to him, and surveyed his bright countenance, his wise, bright eyes gazing somberly into Hasufel's. _May the Valar protect you, noble creature._ At these words, Haldir bowed slightly, to which Hasufel lowered his own head. Then with a lift of his head and a toss of his mane, he turned and cantered away. He knew his way, for he would follow the wind, that would lead him upon his path and take him again, to Rohan.

…

Lothirien stirred, and came slowly back to an awareness of the waking world, wondering detachedly where she was for a moment before her surroundings came into focus, and she found herself in her own room, within her own bed. She sighed and stretched lazily, smiling up into Haldir's eyes as he lay beside her, propped upon an elbow, evidently waiting for her to awaken.

"Good morning, _meleth nin_." He whispered softly as her eyes at last focused upon his.

"Haldir." She murmured, gulping swiftly in an effort to quell the sudden tears that threatened to surface at the sight of him, alive again, warm and real, and here with her. His flesh still carried a glow to it, not so bright as he had appeared when they had first been reunited, but still warm and steady as of sunlight shining through a light canopy. "How did I get here?"

"I carried you." He answered. "I thought our bed would be softer than the earth where we fell asleep together, and as you've become a rather deep sleeper-,"

"Oh," Lothirien groaned, "Forgive me. You must think me a dull old matron, now."

Haldir snorted. "Hardly." A gentle smile warmed his features as he continued, "Our little Halmir is taking much from you." He touched a hand gently against the cloth covering her stomach, still narrow and flat, "You're living for him now, as well."

"Halmir?" Lothirien smiled, covering her husband's hand with her own. "That is the name I chose, for our son. How did you know?" She drew in a slow breath, her face beginning to turn a rosy shade of pink. "You did not bring any new _powers_ back with you, did you?"

Haldir smiled again, "You talk in your sleep."

She sat up swiftly, pressing a hand against his face as he smiled mischievously. "You are real? Not a dream?" She demanded, somewhat breathlessly as his smile grew. "And you're not going to leave? You're staying here? With me?"

"I am staying with you." He assured her with a smirk. "I'll not leave you and Halmir, again. Although I did send your four legged friend back to the lands of the Horse Men."

"Oh, Hasufel." She sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Yes. He will be happier there."

"Lalaith may need him, now, I feel. More than we can imagine."

"Lalaith?" Lothirien asked.

Haldir sighed a long moment, before he admitted, "When I reawakened, my memories of how, or why I returned were vague, and faint. Yet one undeniable thought, was given me. Lalaith, who is soon bound for Rohan, will be vital in this struggle against darkness, and that before this war is over, the servants of the dark lord will give her much to grieve over." He finished thoughtfully, "But that is all Lord Mandos saw fit to give me to know."

"But if Prince Legolas is with her, she will have the power to endure it, yes?" Lothirien sighed, a sympathetic look filling the deep pools of her eyes.

Haldir smiled, studying the gentle look that rested in his beloved's eyes, loving her all the more for the great compassion of which her gentle heart was capable. "They love each other, that I know, as deeply as you and I love." He swallowed softly, lifting a hand, and touching his fingers lightly against his wife's face. He drew in a long breath as she smiled, turning into his touch. "And with such love, nothing the powers of darkness can hurl at them, will ever overcome them. Not lastingly. They will conquer in the end."

"As we have." Lothirien sighed.

"Indeed." He agreed quietly. And with this, Haldir smiled, bent low, and pressed a tender kiss against the warmth of his wife's soft mouth.

A quiet tumble of rocks overhead, caused Aragorn to lift his head, in eager anticipation as Legolas slid, with the characteristic grace of his people, down the steep rock face, and drew to an effortless halt beside the two Hobbits. Lalaith, however, Aragorn realized, a touch of mild bewilderment brushing across his thoughts, was not with him.

His eyes shot instinctively toward Gandalf's, whose face bore concern and wonder, no less than Aragorn's.

"Well, is she coming?" Merry asked, voicing Aragorn's unspoken question as he and Pippin lifted their eyes again to the ledge above them.

"These are yours," Legolas muttered, ignoring the Hobbit's question, his voice barely his as he plucked their sheathed daggers from where he had kept them within his quiver, and handed them to the two Hobbits. "I've long hoped I could return them again."

"Oh, Galadriel's presents!" Pippin chirped as he and Merry gratefully took back the daggers they had dropped at the battle upon Amon Hen when the orcs had taken them.

"We thought we'd lost these!" Merry crowed, his uplifted eyes bright with gratitude as he and Pippin slipped them back into the sheaths that they still wore upon their belts. "Thank you!"

"At least in this, I have been useful." Legolas returned, his eyes dark and somber, a vast contrast from the cheery Hobbits as he leapt lightly down from the rocky gouge, and strode toward Arod.

Again Aragorn glanced with concern at Gandalf's wise eyes, then turned and cast a look of confused apology at Théoden and Éomer. The faces of Rohan's king, and of his nephew were blank questions as the Elf, without preamble, swung again to Arod's back, the muscles of his jaw were taut, his mouth a straight, unsmiling line, and his eyes like a clouded, stormy sky, flashing in one moment with anger, and the next with confused misery.

"Who is this lady we are to meet?" Théoden asked, his voice one of innocent query.

"She is the lady, Lalaith, of Imladris." Gandalf said in a thoughtful murmur, his eyes lifted upward. "The ward of Lord Elrond."

"An Elf maid?" Éomer asked, his tone as his uncle's had been.

"Indeed."

"Does she mean to come down soon?" Théoden murmured softly, craning his neck to gaze upward.

The words had scarcely left his mouth when another face appeared above, a pale face, with eyes that were drawn down and weary. With a cloud of dust and a scattering of rocks, Lalaith slid to the bottom, stumbling slightly as she came to a stop beside the two Hobbits, whose hands shot quickly out to steady her.

"It's alright Lalaith, it'll be fine." Pippin muttered, and Aragorn puzzled a moment over the youngest Hobbit's compassionate tone.

"Mithrandir?" Lalaith's voice, choked and ragged, glowed for a moment with a touch of gladness, as her eyes, wet and reddened, came to rest upon the wizard. "So you are alive after all?"

"Indeed I am, my dear." Gandalf returned warmly. "And I must say, it _is_ good to see you."

Lalaith drew in a ragged breath at this, and her eyes fell to the stones beneath her feet.

Aragorn's brow furrowed. What was this? She appeared steeped in the deepest misery he had even seen her in, as Legolas too seemed to be, though after so much time apart, he had expected them to be rejoicing. Moments before, Legolas had seemed to have much the same thought, when he had so eagerly darted up the wall. But something had happened between them up there, to drive a heavy wedge between them.

"Then perhaps it was not simply a wishful dream." Lalaith mumbled to the stones beneath her feet. "Perhaps there was more to them all, as I believed, all along."

"Lalaith-," Pippin chirped, tugging gently upon her hand, and indicating helpfully toward Théoden and Éomer. "They're new."

"Yes, of course." Lalaith gulped, rallying herself with what appeared to be a great effort. "My lords, forgive me." She stuttered, offering the two a broken attempt at a curtsey.

"You are of-," she choked, bitter pain filling her eyes as she muttered, "of R- Rohan?"

"I am Éomer, sister-son of Théoden, King of Rohan, my lady." Éomer said, his bold voice breaking the silence as he bobbed his head at his uncle.

"Then I must ask again, your forgiveness." Lalaith repeated, with a low bow of her head. "'Tis shameful of me to behave so unseemly before such noble Men. I would dare to believe that you, and the greater part of your people _are_ good and honorable."

A furrow of confusion wrinkled Aragorn's brow at this statement as Lalaith hopped down from the gouge in the wall, and without a word asking his leave, strode near to Brego, and leapt lightly up behind Aragorn, fastening her arms about his waist, and hiding her face, like a child, against his back.

"I am glad you're here, Aragorn." She whispered in the tones of her own tongue, her voice broken with hidden tears. To this, Aragorn had no answer, but with a hand upon her own, he conveyed his concern, and she released a shuddering sigh at his touch.

"Well come then, Peregrin Took. We haven't all day." Gandalf muttered, as Shadowfax stepped toward the wall, and the white robed wizard held up his hands, beckoning to Pippin, who grinned like a child, and leaped eagerly down into his arms, happily settling upon the saddle before Gandalf.

"I will bear the third." Offered Éomer, nudging his own mount nearer, and glancing up at Merry with a veiled expression of uncertainty.

"Ah, thank you, my lord!" Merry cried, leaping down, spread-eagle, and flopping stomach first, across the shoulders and neck of Éomer's mount.

"Here then, noble-, Hobbit." Éomer offered, his expression bewildered as he struggled to help the flailing, half drunken Hobbit to a sitting position upon the saddle before him.

"Thank you." Merry gasped, finding himself at last, upright upon the saddle.

His antics brought a smile to Aragorn's face, though only a small one, for Lalaith, her face buried against his back, moved not at all, when, at another time, she would have been laughing merrily at the little flailing Hobbit.

Aragorn drew in a low breath, his mouth drawn in a tight line, as Brego picked his way carefully through the murky quagmire that sloshed about his knees, following carefully behind Shadowfax as their company waded toward the high black tower that was Orthanc, stabbing harshly at the sky.

His eyes followed the white horse Arod, his eyes fixed upon the taller of the horse's two riders. Legolas' eyes filled with painful questions were fixed his passenger, mounted lightly behind him, but by the press of her cheek against his back, Aragorn could tell that her face was turned away.

Lalaith was speaking to herself, her voice muffled, and Aragorn pretended not to hear, though he could not help but listen as she muttered softly to herself in her own tongue.

"_She lied. She lied._" Lalaith was whispering beneath her breath, seeming to be not aware that Aragorn could hear. "_I know it. Yet why would he turn and leave me with no explanation? Why?_"

"Lalaith," Aragorn whispered, half turning his head, and the Elf maiden fell silent. "Tell me what happened upon the wall. Why this distance between you and Legolas?"

"It is nothing you can help me with." Lalaith mumbled dejectedly, and fell silent.

Aragorn's jaw tightened, as his blood grew warm with frustration. This Elf maid's frail, flighty emotions would be the death of him, to say nothing of what she was doing to Legolas' heart. Would that she had never left Rivendell!

But when he heard her melancholy sigh, ragged and unhappy, Aragorn repented of his annoyance, and smiled softly, covering her hand with his own, where she clung about his waist. Who was he to judge what had caused this? He did not know the pain that filled her heart, and could not presume to.

"Lalaith, _mellon nin_." He murmured in the softened tones of elvish, "My little cousin. Your friends have not forsaken you. And nothing is insurmountable, if you let Legolas face it at your side. He is ever true to you, Lalaith."

"He is?" Lalaith asked, the question catching Aragorn off guard, and he half turned, glancing back at her red rimmed eyes. Need she even ask such a thing?

"Walk carefully," a high voice called from Merry, above the sloshing feet of the horses, causing heads to rise, and glance at him where he rode upon Éomer's mount, perched upon the saddle before Théoden's nephew. "There are broken wheels, and rocks just under the surface, and loose slabs that can tilt up and throw you down into a pit if you don't take care."

"Lalaith and I had our share of tangling with this mess last night!" Pippin was quick to call out in agreement from where he rode before Gandalf, upon Shadowfax as their group neared the base of the steps that led toward the doorway above them, dark and foreboding.

"You did?" Merry called out loudly.

"Well, yes." Pippin shouted in return. "While you were sleeping, and while Treebeard was off on some errand, we went to fetch her lost blanket. It was way up on the steps of Orthanc, but oh, what a mess that was!" He cheerfully finished, "We met an orc!"

Aragorn tensed at the very word, turning to glance over his shoulder at Lalaith as she released a soft moan, and the riders of their small company almost as one, brought their horses to a standing halt.

"That is enough, Pippin." Lalaith called, her voice timid and broken, and Aragorn sensed her shrinking, as if in an effort to disappear.

"It very much is not enough." Gandalf insisted, as the rhythmic sound of sloshing water quieted as the group came to a halt. "What are you talking about, Peregrin Took?"

"Ah, it wasn't just an orc we met." Pippin continued, eagerly as Shadowfax wheeled slightly, so that Pippin could see the bewildered faces of those coming from behind.

"What? You meet Saruman, too?" Merry gasped, his eyes like saucers, glued to Pippin's face.

"No worse!" Pippin cried, his eyes rolling impatiently. "We met a-,"

Above them, a sound as of a fluttering of robes, cut Pippin's words off, and all eyes shot upward to the balcony above the doorway beneath where they had paused. No face could be seen, though a voice that made Aragorn's blood curdle, echoed down at them.

"Who is it?" The simpering voice called. "Who makes such a din in my master's courtyard? What do you wish?"

"I know that voice." Théoden seethed, and Aragorn flashed him a glance as a deep breath swelled in Théoden's chest, a hard look coming over his eyes. "And I curse the day when I first listened to it."

"Go and fetch Saruman, since you have become his footman, Gríma Wormtongue!" Gandalf called back vehemently. "And do not waste our time!"

A fluttering of robes marked Gríma's exit, though no living soul could be seen through the shadowed darkness beyond the window. And then, as upon silent wings, something brushed near the window, but did not come out into the light of the sun.

"Well?" It said with gentle question.


	4. Chapter 3

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 3**

**April 7, 2004**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 3

Lalaith restrained a shudder as she glanced up at the cold black blade that was Orthanc, violating the otherwise pristine blue of the sky. Even now in the light of day, and with Aragorn, she felt a shudder of cold fear. Above the doorway reached by many steps where she had almost met her end the night before, stood a window that led out onto a balcony, hedged with a balustrade of iron bars. Cold and sharp were the angles of the tower, like Saruman and his ilk who dwelt within. Why were they here, beneath his window? Why could they not leave?

"Well?" the gentle voice repeated. "Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace at all by night or day?"

Lalaith recognized Saruman's tones, though he sounded oddly as Gandalf. His voice seemed smoother, spoken from a kindly heart, wounded by undeserved injuries.

As he spoke, he appeared, coming with a smooth gate, out onto the balcony, and resting his hands upon the rail. An old man he appeared, swathed in a cloak, now white, now grey, its color changing as he moved. His eyes as they had always been, were deep and dark, hard to fathom, though a hard coldness rested deep within them, and made Lalaith shudder. His hair and beard were white, as Gandalf's, though strands of black showed about his lips and ears.

"Like Gandalf, but unlike," a gravelly voice muttered from near her, and Lalaith glanced toward Gimli who had spoken, where he sat behind Legolas. And as her eyes flashed over the sturdy Dwarf, inadvertently, her gaze caught Legolas' eyes.

Lalaith dropped her eyes, shuddering at the look of quiet pain and pleading upon his face. What had she done? That vile mortal had fairly reeked of evil and deceit. But then why had Legolas' eyes grown so cold when she had asked him? Why had he turned left her standing alone upon the wall?

Scouring her memory, Lalaith sought for what she had said, perhaps anything that might have spouted forth inadvertently, that could have borne a meaning other than that which she intended, but she could not remember her words. She only remembered her desperate fear, and her almost overwhelming longing to drop to her knees, and beg him to deny it all. But she had not dared to do so foolish a thing, so instead she had stammered and stuttered her way through a maze of emotions, hardly hearing her own words. She had prayed he would understand. But instead, she had seen a distant agonized look come over his eyes before he dropped his face to the stone beneath their feet, and a moment later, turned and stormed away without another word.

"But come now," Saruman continued, his voice smooth, and enchanting, seeming to be full of wisdom and reason. "Some of you at least, I know by name. Gandalf I know too well to have much hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Théoden Lord of the Mark of Rohan! Why have you not come before, and as a friend? Much have I desired to see you, so that I might save you from the unwise and evil counsels that beset you! Surely it is not yet too late. Despite the injuries that have been done to me, in which the men of Rohan have sadly, had some part, still yet I would save you if I could, from this ruin that draws nigh. In truth, only I can save you now."

As the echo of the words faded in her ears, Lalaith shook her head, and glanced downward, shutting her eyes tightly. How melodic Saruman's words sounded, how just and gentle he seemed. Her eyes lifted seeking Théoden, the seasoned King of the lands of the Horse Men, to see what his reaction would be to Saruman's words.

The grey, somber eyes of the King of Rohan were fixed upon Gandalf, hesitant, as if seeking some wise counsel. But Gandalf made no sign. He sat unmoving upon the back of Shadowfax, horse and rider as still as stone, as if both waited patiently for some call that had not yet come. Pippin shifted about anxiously, the only spot of movement there.

"The words of this wizard stand on their heads," Gimli grumped from nearby, shaking her out of her near trance, and she drew in a quick gasp of cold air, as if for the time Saruman spoke, her breath had been stilled. Gimli brandished his axe, shaking it defiantly up at the figure who stood watching them from above. "In the language of Orthanc, help means ruin, and saving means slaying. That is plain."

"Peace!" Saruman cried, and for a fleeting moment, a wild light gleamed in his eyes and was gone. "I do not speak to you yet, Gimli, Glóin's son." His voice once again held its melodic tone, gentle and sympathetic as it had been. "Small concern of yours are the troubles of Men, and hardly by your design that you have become embroiled in them. I cannot blame you your part in them, a valiant one, I do not doubt. But pray, allow me first to speak with the King of Rohan, my neighbor, and once friend."

Gentle eyes that hid blackness in their depths turned again to Théoden. "What say you, my friend, son of the noble House of Eorl? Will you have peace with me? Shall we make our counsels together, and repair our injuries?"

Still Théoden did not answer, though his jaw tightened beneath his skin, his eyes embroiled with a troubled thought.

"Lord, hear me!" Éomer said, drawing near his uncle. "Now we feel the peril that we were warned of. Have we ridden forth to victory, only to stand at last amazed by an old liar with honey on his forked tongue?"

"If we speak of forked tongues, what shall we say of yours, young serpent?" Saruman shot back, and now his anger was clear to see.

"We will have peace," Théoden said at last, and with a great effort, lifting his eyes again to the figure upon the balcony. A look of disbelief came upon Éomer's face, and Lalaith started, a part of her begging her to cry out in protest. But Théoden held up a hand, stopping them both. "Yes, we will have peace," his voice rose, clearer, "we will have peace when you and all your works have perished. And the works of your dark master, to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a deceiver of the hearts of Men and Elves, also, it seems." Lalaith glanced up, to see the eyes of Théoden upon her, gentle and kindly they seemed, warm, like Aragorn's eyes before he turned back to gaze up at Saruman, his gaze growing hard. "The fruit of your work is misery. You and your servants gain joy in wounding the hearts of innocents. You hold out a hand to me, and I perceive only a finger of the claw of Mordor. Cruel and cold. What will you say of the torches in Westfold, and of the children that lie dead there? What of faithful Háma, crushed in the jaws of a warg? What of my own _son_? When you hang from a gibbet at your window, I will have peace with you and Orthanc."

Lalaith gazed with startled eyes upon the king, seeing within him the greatness that his sires of old had passed down to him. Kind to her, his eyes had been, yet flashing with fearless vengeance, when he spoke to Saruman. Were all his people as he was, then the Rohirrim were indeed a noble people.

"Gibbets and crows!" Saruman hissed, and Lalaith's eyes shot upward. She shuddered at the hideous change that had come over his once peaceful countenance as he leaned over the rail as if he meant to smite Théoden with his staff. "Dotard! What is the House of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? The noose comes when it will, slow in the drawing, tight and hard in the end. Hang if you will!" Now his voice changed as he slowly mastered himself. "I know not why I have had the patience to speak to you. For I need you not, nor you little band of gallopers, Théoden, Horsemaster. I have offered you a state beyond your merit and your wit. You give me abuse as thanks. So be it. Go back to your huts.

"But you, my dear child, Lalaith!"

Lalaith shuddered as her name dripped sweetly from Saruman's lips. His cold eyes, veiled with a tender look of fatherly care came to bear upon her.

"For you, I feel the most, for it has come to my ear that the sweet innocence of your trust has been betrayed, most aggrievedly. For you, I am the most greatly pained. How is it that you are here with those who called themselves your friends and your kin before your face, yet no sooner do your gentle eyes turn from their doings, but they show themselves to be what they truly are? Liars, deceivers, faithless rogues, the lot of them, undeserving of your favor, and your gentle graces!"

As Saruman spoke, Lalaith's head dropped. She drew her arms away from Aragorn, clutching them closely to herself, her eyes closing tightly as the melodic tones of Saruman's words washed over her. How compassionate he seemed, how understanding of the wretched pain she felt. It was as if he was the only other who knew of her pain and her fear that Legolas might have cast her aside, thinking her too holy for him. Aragorn was a cold and unfeeling kinsman, Saruman's words seemed to say, unworthy of her trust. Gandalf, brash and rude in comparison to Saruman's wisdom. Gimli was uncouth and loud, and the Hobbits were only silly children. Her mind felt as if drowned in a fog, as it had seemed, the night before when the woman spoke.

_Oh, what is the truth any more_, she cried desperately in her mind.

_Beware my dear one._ A woman's voice echoed faintly within her ears as if from a distant place, muffled by the words of Saruman that still lingered in her thoughts. _Beware the treacherous nets of Saruman and his kind. Believe not their lies, for the love of the Elvenprince is unshakable even now, though his heart has been gravely wounded by thy misgivings and by thy words, misspoken as they were._ The faint, distant words contained the tones of a gentle reprimand, and Lalaith thought of the pained questions Legolas' eyes had borne. She felt herself draw in a ragged sigh. Darkness seeks to claim thee, dear one, and will try all manner of ways to bring thee to grief and ruin. Yet thou hast the power to defy it, if thou wilt but remember thyself. And remember those who are truly thy allies. Do not doubt his love, or the faithfulness of thy friends, for their hearts are unfailing.

"Come, dear child," Saruman's soothing voice called down to her, washing away the soft voice, as a feather upon a flood. "There is in you, I sense, a greater power than that which you show. Surely you are greater than these black hearted infidels which surround you. Will you not leave them, and come up?"

Saruman's eyes gazed down upon her, filled with what seemed to be compassion, and gentle persuasion. But her mind rang with a warning. Something hard and cold existed beyond the soft compassion in his eyes, black and treacherous, a serpent hidden, and ready to strike.

"Steady, Lalaith," Aragorn murmured over his shoulder, his voice near, yet strangely far away, harsh and ragged, compared to the soothing tones of Saruman's voice.

"Lalaith-,"

Another voice spoke, and she gazed at its source as if through a thick fog. It was Legolas who spoke, guiding the head of his mount toward Lalaith. She lifted her face to his, seeing eyes that pled with her, loving her, though pain still lay within them. "Lalaith, do not heed him. Please. He would see you come to harm. Do you not understand that?"

Lalaith's heart quavered, her eyes upon his. Within the blue pools that were his eyes, she saw herself reflected back, fair, yet troubled, and in his eyes she saw tenderness, and love yet lingering there. And suddenly, the flesh fell away from Saruman's reasoning, exposing the rotting skeleton of his lies, and she shuddered, seeing the horror for what it truly was.

"Do not heed that faithless fool, young Lalaith." Saruman's gentle voice called down again. "He cares nothing for you. After all he has done to betray you-,"

"You are the betrayer, Saruman!" Lalaith cried, turning her eyes from Legolas, and lifting up her face, her eyes hardening as they gazed into the treacherous pits that were Saruman's eyes. "You and your grovelers, betrayers of their own people, who come crawling here to your door, seeking after their own faithless kind. What would I find, were I to come up, as you ask me to? Would you be as hospitable as your serving woman was, she who left me with this gift?" With that, Lalaith gathered the unbound weight of her hair into her fist, and drew it away from her throat, so that the fading purple bruises, the nearly faultless outline of slender fingers, could be seen about her throat. Saruman's eyes widened as he stared at the bruises, then turned, casting a poisonous glance over his shoulder at someone inside, who remained unseen. About her, her companions gaped at the bruising upon her throat with amazement, Aragorn turning nearly full around in the saddle, to look at it as Legolas' eyes grew wide with shock, then darkened as he lifted his eyes and shot a dangerous look at Saruman upon his balcony.

"You are a deceiver, and a murderer, Saruman," Lalaith continued, her voice growing in strength as she spoke. "I yet bear many faults, but I will not bow to you." She gulped hard. "Your voice has lost its charm."

At her words, Saruman's eyes flashed with angry fire, as he drew himself up, his smile growing to a hardened line upon his face.

"Pah, Gandalf," Saruman spat turning now from her, as if from a thing of no consequence. "I am grieved for your shame. How have you come to endure such company? Such a noble one as you among rabble as this? Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"

"What have you to say that you did not say at our last meeting?" Gandalf called back as he stirred and looked up. "Or perhaps you have things to unsay?"

"Unsay?" Saruman asked, the smooth tones of his voice coming back, though now the power they had once held over Lalaith had faded, as the memory of an unhappy dream. "I merely endeavored to advise you for your own good. And I still strive to do so. Are we not both of a high and ancient order? Our friendship will profit us both alike Let us understand one another, and dismiss these lesser folk! Will you not consult with me? Will _you_ not come up?"

A long pause followed these words, and Lalaith glanced to Gandalf, waiting with mounting trepidation, for his reply. Was his mind as lost in fog as hers had been? Would he ascend as Saruman wished? Would he betray them?

Then Gandalf laughed, a merry bright laugh, and the fear growing in her heart melted, as wax before a cheerful fire.

"Saruman, Saruman," laughed Gandalf, barely able to contain his mirth, "You should have been the king's jester and earned your bread mimicking his counselors. Ah, me!" Gandalf paused, gaining a hold at last over his laughter. "When last I visited you, you were the jailor of Mordor, and there I was to be sent. No, the guest who escaped from the roof will think twice before he comes back in by the door. But come now, Saruman. Will it not be well to leave Isengard for a while? To turn to new things, perhaps? Think well, Saruman. Your servants are destroyed and scattered, your neighbors you have made your enemies, and you have cheated your new master. You may go free if you wish. To go where you will, even to Mordor, if you desire. But you will first surrender to me the Key of Orthanc, and your staff. They shall be pledges of your conduct, to be returned later, if you merit them."

"Later?" Saruman asked, his voice a wild laugh, as all pretence at calm was dashed aside. "Later, perhaps, when you have the keys of Barad-Dûr itself, perhaps? Ha! I have other things to do. If you wish to treat with me, go away and come back when you are sober! And leave behind this behind this band of cut throats, and small rag-tag, and that mindless _strumpet_ that you have dangling on your tail! Good day."

Saruman pushed himself away from the balcony, and turned to stride back into the shadows when a shaft, long and sleek, flew up in a sharp arch, and struck, quivering, into the hard wood of the open door, less than a hand's span from his face.

"Come back, Saruman!" Legolas' voice was fraught with bridled fury as he glared with fire in his eyes up at the figure half immersed in the shadow of his window. And to the amazement of the others, Saruman obeyed, resting his hands again, upon the balustrade.

"Ah, but my young Prince, Thranduilion?" He murmured, though now his voice trembled slightly. "Is your aim faltering?"

"I did not miss. Such a quick death would be too merciful for you." Legolas hissed, drawing another arrow from his quiver, and setting it once again to the string. The string of the bow, Lalaith realized, with a lift of her brows, was the one he had gifted to her in Lothlorien, and the one which she dropped, upon Amon Hen before she and the Hobbits had been taken by the orcs. His own still rested within its place upon his back, beside his arrows. His left hand clutching the haft of the bow, was lifted, his second arrow aimed, unwavering, at Saruman's chest. And upon the smallest finger of his hand, rested a ring, a golden sapphire ring. Her own, that she had thought lost in Lothlórien.

A breath choked her at this realization, and she had to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle a sudden gasp.

"Take back the vile words you spoke, concerning the lady else you wish to be carrion for your own crows!" Legolas continued, his teeth crushed together, his eyes livid with an inner fire.

"You poor, misled boy." Saruman tisked, though his voice still trembled, and his eyes showed fear. "Why do you strive to honor one so fickle, who teases you with licentious hopes, only to betray you to grief and despair in the end?"

"You blithering simpleton!" Gimli shouted suddenly from behind Legolas, raising his axe, and brandishing it up at the robed figure that stood upon the balcony. "First you tell her that he betrayed her, then you tell him that she betrayed him? If you mean for your lies to be believed, at the very least, keep them straight!" He grumbled low beneath his breath before grunting, "Oh, just shoot him now, Legolas."

"Oh, come now." Gandalf said sternly, his gaze directed at the Elf and Dwarf upon their cream coated mount. "He will not take back his words, for it is not in him to do so. But I don't want you killing him yet. I am not finished with him."

Gandalf turned his eyes back toward Saruman, lifting his voice. "You have become a fool, Saruman. Stay, as you have chosen, and gnaw upon your old plots. But I warn you, you shall not come out again easily. Not unless the dark hands of the East stretch out to take you." His voice grew in power and authority as he continued, "Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death. You have no color now, and I cast you from the order, and from the Council."

Lifting his hand, his face became grave, his voice deep as he spoke. "Saruman, your staff is broken."

There was a crack, and the staff split in Saruman's hand. The head of it fell down, clattering upon the steps, and skittering downward, to fall with a soft plop, into the water that lapped at the steps. With a cry, Saruman fell back, and crawled away, ignored by those below. For as it rolled into the water, a gleam, ignored until now, found many of their eyes.

"Oi, what's that?" Pippin cried, leaping down from before Gandalf, and scrambling through the water toward the thing. Hefting it up, as if its weight was great, he lifted a great black globe, smooth as glass, though beneath its surface, a light seemed to dance and flicker as of a clouded flame.

"Here my lad, I'll take that." Gandalf cried, and at his order Pippin lifted the great stone, though with obvious reluctance, and handed it to the wizard who quickly wrapped it in the folds of his cloak. "I will take care of this. It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away."

"Well, if that's the end of that," Gimli grunted, with his usual Dwarfish forthrightness that brought a smile creeping to Lalaith's face, "shall we be going?"

"It is the end," said Gandalf. "Let us go."

At this, Aragorn turned the head of the steed that bore them. Lalaith caught her arms about his waist again, turning her eyes toward Legolas as he wheeled the head of his cream white mount around, and as their eyes met, her heart caught upon a beat. For within his eyes, a look of tender devotion gazed out at her, and a gentle smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.


	5. Chapter 4

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 4**

**April 13, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 4

Lalaith pursed her lips, feeling obviously out of place and sensing the eyes of many upon her as she touched a hand self-consciously against the cloth of the gown Éowyn, the king's niece, had given her. Her hair, no longer plaited, fell down her back in a loose cascade.

She looked down into her wooden cup of mead, barely touched, before she felt the sensation of eyes upon her, and glanced up to meet the gazes of a small group of youths across the room, barely older than boys, who blushed and looked away grinning sheepishly as her gaze found them.

These plain, yet generous Rohirrim had never seen an Elf woman before, she guessed as she turned her eyes and smiled timorously into the many glances filled with awe and wonder that were cast her way.

Most eyes, however, were fixed upon Merry and Pippin, and their sprightly antics.

The two jolly hobbits stood atop a wooden table, singing the delighted clapping of the onlookers, their furry little feet dancing in time to their words.

"My lady?"

Lalaith glanced away from the Hobbits, and into the eyes of Éomer, the king's nephew who stood near her, a slim smile on his youthful, bearded face as he bobbed his head slightly toward her.

"My lord," she returned, nodding her own head toward him.

"I am glad to meet you at last, and to know that you are unscathed, after all that you have passed through. For I led the band of riders that slaughtered the uruks who had taken you and your small companions captive." He pursed his lips, his brow wrinkling in a gesture of apology. "We did not see you. I am sorry."

"All is forgiven, of course my lord," she said, offering him a reassuring smile. "We are well and safe now."

"Much also to the relief of your betrothed, I do not doubt." Éomer said, lowering his eyes for a moment before bringing them up to bear upon her again. Lalaith swallowed at his words. "I could see, the day I met him, the depth of his love for you. For when he thought you might have been killed-," he pursed his lips thoughtfully, "I could see the despair in his eyes. Indeed, my lady, they were the eyes of one would have faced Sauron himself to avenge you, even if he died in the doing."

Lalaith glanced at the floor, uncertain what to say. "I am glad he did not have the need," she murmured, hearing her voice catch.

"But I am keeping you longer than is needful. Please forgive my manners, my lady." Éomer bowed stiffly, and with a thin smile, he turned and was gone.

"Ah," a voice, gravely and deep drew near, and Lalaith turned, smiling softly at Gandalf who drew near, his sparkling eyes fixed contentedly upon the Hobbits. "After the tragedy of Helm's Deep, `tis a blessing to see these people with something to smile about."

Gandalf's eyes danced and twinkled with merriment, and Lalaith found herself smiling back.

"They are a good people, these Horse Lords," she agreed, nodded toward the lady Éowyn, Éomer's sister, who stood before Aragorn, some distance away from the Wizard and Elf, her face radiant as she offered the Ranger a carven goblet of mead.

"The king's niece looks lovely tonight," Lalaith said.

"As do you, Lalaith," Gandalf added with a generous chuckle. "You do great justice to gowns, when you can wear them."

Lalaith smirked, and looked down at the cream colored cloth of the gown she wore. "Éowyn insisted that this was a gift. She said she had another like it."

"Indeed?" Gandalf's gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the golden haired motal maiden and the destined king of Gondor as Aragorn took the cup from the lady, and sipped appreciatively, before giving it again into her slender white hands.

"Yes," Lalaith shifted her weight slightly so that the soft white cloth of the gown whispered as it fluttered faintly about her body. Its fabric was a little heavier than what she was used to, and slightly more coarse, but still it was lovely, delicately embroidered with golden thread about the throat and shoulders, and with sleeves that fell open at her elbows, trailing down, like a bird's wings. "Yet when she took me to her rooms to change, I could see that the fine gowns within her wardrobe are already very few."

"She has a good heart, though yet a bit confused." Gandalf agreed, lifting his cup of mead, and taking a small sip as Aragorn offered the king's niece a grateful bow, then turned and strode away, his steps bringing him across the hall, and toward the Wizard and Elf maiden. "What she feels is but a shadow and a dream." Gandalf sighed almost to himself. "Aragorn has made his choice, and he knows where his heart lies." He sniffed, almost casually and finished with a soft lift to his voice, "As does Legolas."

Lalaith lifted her gaze to the wizard whose mischievous eyes nodded to the side, and she turned her head, following Gandalf's gaze. Legolas stood near a pillar, watching the merry making with a half veiled smile, one hand folded over the other as Gimli, with strains of frothy beer trailing through his beard, sat upon a bench beside him, banging his mug upon the tabletop in time to the singing, and the dancing feet of the Hobbits. Several yet unclaimed mugs rested near his hand, their contents frothing about to the pounding of his mug. Lalaith smiled and drew her eyes away from the Dwarf to see Legolas' eyes upon her. As their gazes met his eyes grew warm, studying her own with a gentle, unspoken question.

Upon a table between them, Pippin, singing drunkenly off key, stumbled dancing to the edge of the table, and with a squawk, began to tumble over the side, but for one of Éowyn's young maids who stood near, and caught him by the shoulders as he fell.

"Careful, Master Hobbit!" the girl laughed, righting him again upon the table top.

"Why, thank you!" Pippin chirped, turning to her, and flashing her a beaming smile as she nodded, and glided away. Pippin's smile quickly faded though, swaying where he stood, and the dancing of his feet stilled. "Oh-," he groaned, shaking his head. "I think I need a drink."

Clambering down off of the table, he staggered away, plopping himself gracelessly beside Gimli, nodding his thanks as the Dwarf handed him one of the brimming mugs. "My, it's nice to see that not all women from Rohan are like that _barmy_ one Lalaith and I met at Orthanc!"

"Oh, yes," Gimli grumbled under his breath, his voice so soft that Lalaith doubted she would have been able to hear it beneath the din within the hall had she not been an Elf. "You must mean Greta. Is that the one who tried to choke Lalaith?"

Lalaith swallowed hard. Gimli and Pippin were clearly unaware that she and Legolas also, could hear their words beneath the din. She could see Legolas in the side of her vision gazing at her with increased concern, but she dared not look at him, and instead kept her eyes focused hard upon the Hobbit and Dwarf.

"Mm." Pippin nodded, taking a sip before he added brightly, "and _I_ saved her!"

"I'm not surprised the rotten strumpet went crawling back to her master." Gimli continued with an eager nod as he took another gulp, foaming golden liquid spilling down his beard as he did. "Banishment was too good a punishment for her, if you ask me. She's got a tricky way with words. She can make wrong sound right, and- _Ghrr_ Wretched wench! I'd like to get my hands around _her_ throat." The Dwarf leaned slightly forward and muttered conspiratorially, "It's said that a goodly number of the young men in this city fell victim to her-, ah," Gimli stopped, and looked away, clearing his throat. Pippin's youthful, innocent face widened, his brows lifting as he waited for the Dwarf to continue.

"What? What did she do? Kill 'em?" Pippin breathed, agast.

"No, she-, ah, well, 'tisn't important." Gimli gruffed, and fell silent as he tilted his mug up, and drained the contents.

Lalaith's eyes had fallen to the floor as Gimli had spoken, the din of the room fading to a dull roar within her ears. She felt her face flushing warmly as her own heart throbbed loudly in her ears.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she lifted her face, gazing plaintively into Gandalf's warm eyes. Aragorn stood a short distance beyond Gandalf's shoulder, his gaze concerned.

But they could not help her. With that thought, she pulled away from Gandalf's touch and hurried away. Skirting through the crowd, she slipped toward the great carven oaken doors of inlaid wood, out onto the broad stone veranda that reached round the outer walls of the Great Hall, washed over by the chilled night breezes. And she was alone, for even the door guards were absent. And as the noise within grew faded, she hugged her arms to herself, and strode to the ledge. She shuddered at the steep drop as the wind swirled about her, catching at her hair and her gown, but she steeled herself, and did not move back. And instead, she turned her gaze outward, and over the city.

Edoras fell swiftly away beneath her feet, yellow lights flickering here and there amongst the darkened houses that marched down the steep slope below the Great Hall. Beyond the pickets of the city wall, the darkened vale stretched outward, a vast flat plain where grasses danced to the silent music of the wind. And in the darkened distance, like silent, watchful sentinels, rose the high, snow capped mountains, touched silver by the faint light that filtered from the sky.

Lalaith drew in a hard shuddering sigh, following the lines of the mountains upward until her eyes found the stars. She gasped in quick gulps of air as the wind soothed gently through her hair like calming fingers, cooling her flushed face, and floated her gown about her.

Slowly her thundering heart calmed as the light and noise within the Great Hall faded behind her, and Lalaith gazed upon the bright flecks of diamonds that littered the sky above her. The stars she had always loved, their steadiness, ever unchanging, ever faithful. _Unlike myself._ She thought darkly. _Losing my wits and my reason at the first foolish whim. When will I ever learn_? One would never believe that she could be the daughter of the one who had kindled them.

A quiet noise from the great oaken doors went unnoticed as she lifted her hands, running them through her unbound hair as she gulped another ragged breath, drawing the cool night air thirstily into her lungs. And soft feet moving over the stone behind her remained unheard as her hands fell heavily to her sides.

"_Lalaith nin_." The voice behind her caused a delicious shiver of warmth to trail over her limbs, and then gentle hands cupped her shoulders as a soft kiss pressed against her hair. "The light of your mother's stars rests in your hair."

"Oh, Legolas," she murmured and turned slowly, lifting her heavy eyes to his.

"Why did you leave the Hall?"

Lalaith shivered. His words were not demanding, simply a gentle question. Still, she felt a stab of guilt at the questions in his voice.

"I had to be alone, after what Gimli said-," Lalaith murmured, dropping her eyes, "Away from the people, and the noise. But I am glad you followed me."

Lalaith drew in a deep breath and lifted her face, her heart aching at the warm look of compassionate adoration that deepened Legolas' gaze now as he looked upon her. His jaw was tightening softly as the corners of his lips twitched with the faint hope of a smile, and a sheen of unshed tears touched his eyes.

"I followed you, for I do not wish our fate to be as Aldarion and Erendis before we are even wed." He said at last, his words cracking softly as he spoke. "I could never give you up, so easily."

"Nor would my heart permit me to let you go without a word to stay you." She sighed tremulously, searching his eyes as they gazed pleadingly down into hers. Her heart pounded raggedly within her at the warmth that emanated from his nearness. And silent prayers flew on swift wings as she begged the Valar to guide her words that this time, she could make her heart known. "Yet-, I have-, so many questions."

"Then ask them of me," he gently breathed.

He murmured a reverent breath as his lips twitched hopefully, and he reached out, offering her his hand, his brow furrowing with aching hope as he waited for her response.

Slowly, as if time had drawn to a crawl, she lifted her hand, placing it lightly within his own, and a sigh escaped her lips as the lean warmth of his fingers closed over her own. And a smile, as gentle as moonlight itself, touched his face.


	6. Chapter 5

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 5**

**April 15, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 5

Lalaith gulped hard. She did not dare to lift her eyes to his as her hand slipped into his. Within her, her heart hammered painfully, hardly daring to allow herself the hope that was beginning to spring like a new dawn within her soul.

"_Lalaith nin_." Legolas' voice whispered softly as he bent his head, bringing her hand up to his mouth, and softly brushing his lips across her fingertips. "Do you know how much I have missed you? How I dreamed of you, and longed to be with you?"

"You missed me?" She whispered pleadingly, lifting her eyes at last to his.

He smiled gently at this, though his brow twitched as with supressed pain. "Where you not there with me in my dreams? Did you not share my thoughts? Always I could feel your presence. Could you not feel mine?"

Lalaith's heart grew small with shame. "I did." She muttered. "But when I met-, that woman, I suppose I forgot that I had."

"Greta has hurt you." A hand lifted, and his fingers so gently, as of a feather's touch, stroked the slowly fading bruise upon her slender throat. "More than what shows upon the surface."

His hand lightly trailed up her throat, his fingers brushing softly across her trembling lips.

"How did it happen?" He muttered, his voice growing suddenly ragged, as if twisted by wretched pain.

Lalaith sighed. "This-, _Greta_ and her orc found us, Pippin and me, upon the steps of Orthanc. They snatched Pippin, and when he cried out my name, Greta seemed to know me. She spoke to me of you." Lalaith sighed, and dropped her eyes, unable to look more into Legolas' face.

Lalaith's words faded away, and she faltered, unsure if she could find the strength to continue. She shivered as the cool wind of night washed across her back.

"What did she say?" Legolas pled, his voice painfully soft, and broken with quiet fear. "For that is what has caused this sorrow in your heart, is it not?"

Lalaith gulped hard, and lifted her gaze once again to his as she murmured, "She spoke of your voice, how fair it is, and that you sang to her. And she said-, she claimed that you had-," her voice grew to a timid whisper, "That you had given yourself to her."

At these words, Legolas stiffened, motionless but for the movement of his breathing, which had grown deeper at her words. The silence lengthened, and Lalaith dared not look at him.

"My heart was torn into pieces, Legolas. I could not think. I could not reason with myself, though I wanted to. My soul whispered that she had lied, but still-," Lalaith sighed brokenly, afraid to look at him as she rambled, "still if what she said was true, then I had lost everything. You would not do something so wretched as to take a woman you did not love. And if you had forgotten your love for me because I am born of Valar and given your heart to her, as I feared, then not only would you be lost to me, but I would also have lost what little peace I could have found in your happiness." She choked, and vehemently spat, "For that heartless creature _does not_ love you-," Her voice died, and she dared at last to look up, fearing what she would see.

But at the look within his eyes, her fear faded into oblivion. His eyes held her as in a tender embrace, and Lalaith had to catch a breath, feeling the warm touch of his gaze, as if his very hands moved gently over her, soothing away her fear.

"No, she cannot love me. Not as you can." Legolas whispered, a breath swelling his chest as he opened her softly curled fingers and pressed a kiss into the warm flesh of her palm, his eyes ever upon Lalaith's face.

"Oh, _Lalaith nin_," he breathed. His voice was warm and soft, the tender tones of his words loosening the painful constrictions that had been cast about her heart by Greta's cruel words. "I love you-, only you." He lifted a hand, brushing his fingertips lightly against her cheek. "My sweet Lalaith. I did not do as Greta claimed."

Lalaith stood for a long moment, unable to speak, barely able to breath as the words he spoke seeped sweetly into her mind, and settled, like warm sunlight, upon her heart. His words rang of truth, truth she had known all along, but now, at the soft utterance of them, a gentle relief eased over her, soothing away the pain and the unsurity as vile poison drawn from a wound.

"Oh, Legolas." She hissed, and dropped her eyes. "I have been such an abominable fool."

The wind that swirled cool about the Golden Hall of Meduseld danced about Lalaith where she stood, catching at her gown, and floating her hair about her shoulders. And she shivered again.

At this, Legolas smiled, and drew closer to her. And her shivering turned into a tremor of warmth that trailed along the lines of her flesh as the folds of his warm Lórien cloak enfolded her, as of the sheltering wings of a great eagle. His arms, warm and sure, encircled her, drawing her tenderly to him, and she moved willingly against the familiar warmth of his chest as if she had never left his embrace.

Softly she choked, "I should never have imagined, even for a moment-,"

"Hush _Lalaith nin_, do not worry any longer." Legolas soothed gently, and Lalaith sighed. She relaxed against him, laying her head upon the warm leather of his jerkin, and closing her eyes as she listened to the ever steady murmur of his heart. "Poisoned were Greta's dark lies, more painful and deadly than the venom of any spider. But she is defeated, now."

She sighed drinking in the sweet tones of his words as he drew her ever tighter against him, and brushing his lips against the delicate point of her ear whispered, "You are the only one I have ever wanted."

Lalaith shivered at the rich promise within his words, and tilted her head up, her eyes seeking his within the soft silver darkness that enfolded them.

"I love _you_, Lalaith." He finished simply, his eyes searching her own.

"Oh, Legolas." She sighed in return, straining upward to brush the edge of his warm jaw with her lips. "I love you. So very much."

His chest swelled with fervent emotion at her words and her touch, and he bent his head toward her uplifted face until with a touch that was as light as a feather, their lips met. A brief caress it was, containing all of eternity in one delicious moment, before they parted. His shadowed eyes, warm and eager, found her own as a moment of shared wonder passed between them, and then with a timorous smile his arms tightening gently about her, Legolas dipped his head once again toward her own.

A moment later, Legolas' mouth, warm and moist, captured her own. A thrill of warm desire shuddered through her body. And as he plied her softly parted lips with tender imploration, she strained ever nearer, eagerly responding to the soft caresses of his mouth. How long had it been since they had shared such a moment as this? It had seemed an age. And yet-, as the taste of his mouth, the scent of his warm, supple flesh, and the alluring feel of his firm strength pressed against her drowned her senses, it was as if they had never been parted. Their estrangement in the Golden Wood, her capture upon Amon Hen, Greta's evil words-, all these faded into oblivion.

A battle had been won, she realized as she slid her fingers up his chest and circled her arms about his firm shoulders. As dear and sweet a triumph as if it had been won on a battlefield. Yet this she knew, was only a small victory in the war against the corruption of Sauron and his minions. What would the future bring them? What wrathful pain did the spawn of Morgoth have in store for the free people of Middle Earth? She could not tell. Legolas could not tell. None could.

Yet one thing she knew. The bond that joined their souls was stronger than the paltry, grasping fist of evil that had tried to crush them. The whispered lies of the One Ring had not parted their hearts. The pain and grief Greta's lies had caused, had not driven them apart. Their love would emerge triumphant, though all the powers of Morgoth sought to hedge their way.

_Evil is not the only power in the world. Good is stronger._ The words she had spoken the night before the Fellowship had departed Rivendell came back to her, resounding through the corridors of time with a prophetic echo she had not foreseen.

Lalaith smiled at the memory as Legolas, with a sigh of reluctance, drew his mouth slowly away from her own, though his face hovered near, lightly touching her own as his breath teased softly across her mouth.

"And _love_ is much stronger." She murmured softly, her words following her thoughts.

"Indeed it is," Legolas sighed, and by his tone, she knew he understood.

Enfolded within the warmth of his cloak, and safe within the circle of his arms, she sought his eyes through the shadows that lay between them as he gazed down into her face with tender soberness.

"Though all the minions of Morgoth be unleashed," he vowed softly as a slender smile touched his lips, "the love that binds our souls will never be defeated."

At this, Lalaith returned his smile before she uttered a soft sigh, and nestled her face against his neck as he bent his head over hers, resting his cheek against the cool fragrance of her hair.


	7. Chapter 6

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 6**

**April 21, 2004**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 6

Burza sat crumpled in a small ball, huddled against the ragged black stone of the wall, her arms clutched to her shoulder as if she held something that was not there. In her nervousness, she gnawed at her knuckles, hoping Saruman would not think to focus his wrath upon her. Beneath the stiff abrasive cloth of her worn garment, she could feel the square of folded silver cloth against her skin, and she focused her thoughts upon it. It was soft and cool, and smelt sweetly of something vague and distant. Unlike everything else she knew. Or had ever known. It brought to her mind thoughts and fleeting images that could have been memories, but were not. For all that she had ever known in her dreary, unending life, was blackness. Claws and caves and caverns, were all that filled her memory, harsh beatings, and leering laughing faces.

She shuddered as another wrenching scream tore the air, a shriek of pain from Greta as the fallen wizard Saruman, still powerful in his wrath, picked up the bruised and bleeding woman by the neck, and shoved her roughly against the stone wall.

"You dared to throw away my seeing stone?" Saruman's voice, harsh and seething echoed again. Gríma, Greta's brother stood behind Saruman's shoulder, hunched and simpering, watching his moaning, sobbing sister, with no other expression upon his face than cowardly relief that it was not he who was receiving the punishment. And Burza gnawed her knuckles again.

Burza lifted her eyes for a slight moment, cringing as the woman pinned to the ragged black stone of the wall swiveled her tortured head to look down upon the crumpled orc, and shot the little orc a withering stare.

Saruman drew his hand back suddenly, and released Greta, sending her sprawling to the floor, in a clumsy tangle of skirts.

Greta lifted seething reddened eyes, but rather looking up at Saruman in her anger, she turned her head, focusing her fury upon the crumpled orc.

Burza whined, and covered her head with her arms as Greta scrambled up, only to be sent sprawling once again upon her face, from a blow from the ragged end of Saruman's broken staff, as her forehead cracked sharply against the cold black of the stone floor.

There she lay, crumpled, before she lifted her face again, and directed her focus upon Burza, snarling at the cringing orc as a trail of bloody drool oozed from her mouth. "The orc told me to." The wounded mortal burbled weakly, though there was a dark tone to her broken words.

_But why would Greta say that_? Burza wondered to herself. Why did Greta want to punish Burza? Burza had not told Greta to throw it away. It was not even Burza who had told Saruman what Greta had done. Saruman had somehow guessed it himself. And it was Saruman who had flung her about until she was bruised and bleeding, not Burza.

But then, Burza reminded herself, it was because she was small. And weak. Easy to punish. She had never known pity or compassion in all her dark, miserable life. Any attention she had ever been given, had been harsh, being a small orc, and a female at that. She had grown used to punishment and abuse, not the worst of the horrible unnamable things that she had been forced to submit to, not because she had deserved it, but because she was an easy target.

With this thought, deep inside her, in a miniscule corner of her darkened heart, she felt a twinge of some strange emotion. And it surprised her. It was the same sensation she had felt for the little Man-like creature she had picked up. He was small, but deceptively heavier than what she had first thought, when she had slung him over her shoulder. And he had been frightened. Oh, how he'd fought her to get away! And how fast his heart had been hammering. She wouldn't have hurt him. He was sweet and small, like a baby.

In all of her darkened memories, she'd never held a baby. She'd never had any orclings of her own, and there were no little ones among Saruman's hordes. He bred his orcs to be fully mature when they were ripped out of the warm muck of their hibernacula, born for no other purpose but to fight and die.

Burza like her fellow orcs, knew no other emotion but fear and hunger, the only sensations she had ever remembered feeling, the emotions that drove her to live, though why, she could not tell. For life was nothing but cold darkness, and endless misery.

And yet when she had picked up the little creature, she had felt something different. A fierce protective urge it had been, strong enough, that had Greta tried to hurt the little baby creature herself, Burza would have stopped her. Violently, if she needed to. As she should have stopped her when Greta had tried to kill the pretty Elf, Burza reminded herself. The Elf whose long yellow hair, and star filled eyes struck a chord in Burza's mind, the forgotten memory of an unremembered dream.

And she clutched her empty arms to her shoulder and bit at her knuckles again. For another new sensation gnawed at her, less pleasant, though with less fierce strength than the first, when Burza had stood idly by, watching while the maiden saved herself. And as thoughts pulled themselves together, dragged from the recesses of her memories, a word formed in her mind. An emotion she had not felt in a very long time, for she had steeled herself to it, as it had no purpose in her wretched, miserable existence. _Sorrow_. She wished she had done something to help the Elf.

"Get up. I tire of flinging you about." Saruman muttered, his voice thick with fury and disgust as the ruined wizard leaned over his broken staff, staring down at Greta with a cold impatient look in his eyes, and the cringing woman, staggered to her feet, shuddering. And in spite of the blood upon her pale face, she lifted her chin at Saruman, straightening herself as much as she could, and turned toward the cowering creature who sat huddled in the corner.

"Come here, orc." Saruman ordered, his voice low and dark.

Turning her eyes upon her mistress, Burza cringed. For Greta was watching her with a hardened look seething through her shadowed eyes, and her fists, her long tapered fingers, were slowly opening and closing, like curved, hungry jaws. Saruman, once again was the image of staid, sober calm as he stood some distance away from the bruised and bleeding mortal and leaned upon the broken ragged edge of what was left of his staff as Gríma huddled, half hidden, behind his master's shoulder, watching his sister through wide, watery eyes.

"Come, Burza." Greta added with a wave of her hand, and Burza, scrunched and small, biting at her knuckles felt the familiar pang of raw fear eating her inside. She knew that look upon Greta's face. She would get a beating, or worse. And she could not escape it.

But then Burza felt the cloth of the little blanket again against her skin, and she felt her blood warming.

"May I, master?" Greta asked smoothly with a nod to Saruman, and a half smile, as if his bloody abuse of her had never happened.

Saruman, his eyes fixed burningly upon the small orc, his hands folded over the end of his ragged staff, nodded to the mortal woman, who smiled poisonously, and turned her cold gaze back upon Burza.

Burza gulped. She had done nothing. But Greta would hurt her, and only because Burza was small and helpless.

Greta sneered, her eyes widening in sinister anticipation as she strode swiftly toward the cowering orc, her white, clawlike hand slowly extending toward the cowering orc as her mouth twisted into a hideous smile. "I said, come here," she snarled.

Something awoke in Burza then, something long dormant. Its source was still hidden in her deepest memories, and though she did not fully understand it, she gasped hold of it, eagerly, almost greedily, and she lunged upward, surprising Greta as she plowed her head straight into the startled mortal's stomach, knocking her backward before Burza plunged away. Gríma's pale face gaping in disbelief, and Saruman's furious, vehement eyes were but a blur in her vision as she darted out of the room. Lurching and scrambling, she clawed her way toward the high arching doorway that led outside as Greta, regaining her feet, snarled her fury after the fleeing orc.

"Come back, you wretched, worthless beast!" Greta screamed, the wild echo of her fury beating upon the frightened orc's ears like the cry of the Nazgûl. And Burza dared a glanced over her shoulder as she gasped hard, her breath coming in hard, wrenching gasps as she pounced and scrambled her way clumsily over the black stone of the floor, slippery beneath her flopping, thick soled feet. Greta was pounding after her, stumbling and slipping herself, still suffering from Saruman's punishment. The mortal's eyes were red and murderous as she closed in swiftly upon the terrified orc, and Burza did not doubt but that the mortal would crush the life out of her, were Greta to reach her. And Saruman would do nothing but look on, with Gríma, ever silent, and submissive, at his shoulder.

But Burza scrambling desperately, reached the doors, at last, and hastily, with strength borne of her wild terror flung them open. Stumbling and slipping, not daring to glance back, she scampered down the great stairs, beneath the sun, hot and cruel, that pounded upon her head and back, relentless and heavy.

Burza stumbled to a halt at the realization of what she had done. Sunlight was everywhere, blasting her eyes with its blinding light, scorching her back and shoulders, nothing but her ragged garment, and the thin skiff of dark hair upon her head to shield it from its merciless eye.

"Very good, little orc." Greta's voice, smooth and even, spoke from the doorway, and she looked back up to see Greta in the doorway, still gasping from her run, and still trembling from her injuries as blood trickled from both her nose and her mouth. The mortal was too afraid to come out herself, Burza could see.

"Come back." Greta urged, her voice sounding gentle now. "You know you cannot last long out there. There is nothing to but death for you if you do not return. Come, little Burza, come back. I spoke too harshly. Do not worry. I promise you, I will not hurt you."

Burza, perched between the brown swamp below her, and the doorway, glanced downward, watching with trepidation as several of the great tree people, the Ents, came wading near, watching her with curiosity, in their deep golden eyes, and loathing as well.

They despised her people, she knew, and she ducked her head. Small wonder, for much of the near forest, and many of their kin had been slain by her people. Were she to go down, surely she would be killed for what her people were.

"Come, come Burza." Greta continued, her voice now pleasant and inviting. "Come my friend. They will hurt you, those vile trees. You will be safe with me. Will you not come up?"

Burza glanced back at the mortal who smiled gently at the orc's timid glance. Gulping hard, Burza took a tentative step back up, her gaze fixed upon the kindly, inviting smile of the mortal, who held out a hand in gentle beckoning.

But then she stopped, and dropped her eyes to the steps upon where she stood. A memory flashed back to her. The pretty Elf struggling weakly as Greta, a wild sneer upon her face, crushed her throat against the steps as Burza watched helplessly, to afraid to move. The Elf had done Greta no wrong. And yet Greta had tried to kill her for nothing more than the wild thrill of destroying something of worth and of beauty. And she had ordered Burza to kill the little Manling. The sweet little baby creature, the little Hobbit. And at this memory, Burza lifted her eyes again, narrowing her gaze as her breath grew deep. That same protective urge welled up in her, and she frowned bitterly at Greta.

Upon the surface, Greta's eyes smiled, dancing and inviting her to return. And still, the temptation was great. The sun hurt her eyes and her skin, burning, burning her as she stood, unmoving. But there was deceit there, undeniable, and dark, and in Greta's eyes, deep within them, was the same wild light simmering that had flared forth when she had ordered Burza to kill the dear baby, the Hobbit. And Burza dropped down a step again, glancing over her shoulder at the Ents who were gathering beneath her.

She was caught between two deaths. Burza suddenly realized as her heart grew into a heavy, listless weight. Greta would kill her if she returned. And the Ents would crush her bones if she went down to them.

Burza drew in a deep breath, hugging her arms tightly to herself over the little square of soft cloth. And she knew which choice to make. She would not give Greta the satisfaction of being the one to giving death to her.

Slowly, without a glance back at Greta's narrowed eyes, Burza turned toward the doom she had chosen, and with her feet flopping heavily beneath her, slowly descended the steps toward the line of silent, waiting Ents who watched her coming with wise, golden eyes.


	8. Chapter 7

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 7

April 26, 2004

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Chapter 7

Burza hugged her arms all the tighter to herself, crushing the little blanket against her bony frame as she flopped to an awkward stop at the bottom of the steps. She hoped it would not be a prolonged death. If they would but crush her with one of their heavy wooden feet, it would end quickly.

"Burárum, little orc." The nearest and chief among them rumbled with distaste as he came forward, a gangly limbed creature with a vast beard of moss hanging beneath a great wooden bulge upon his face, what appeared to be a large, lopsided nose. "Unwise, unwise indeed," it breathed in a low sonorous voice, "to come out here."

She squeaked in fear and flinched, but made no effort to flee, for trying to run would be purposeless as the Ent's branching fingers reached down, and snatched her up, lifting her up to eye level, then turning slowly to stride away with her, the other Ents beside him. Great steps Their wooden feet took through the murky swamp and over rotting piles of flotsam. Over the shoulder of the Ent who held her, Burza could see Orthanc falling behind, and upon the high balcony stood Greta, her arms folded, watching Burza go, a sour smirk upon her still bloodied face.

"Why?" The Ent breathed, his golden eyes gazing over her, flashing with anger, but also with curiosity too.

"Mm?" She gulped, her focus flashing back to his long, wooden face. "Why erz, what?"

The Ent blinked, and paused, tipping his wooden head slightly to the side as if pondering her question. "Why _burárum_," he breathed sonorously, "did you come out of Orthanc?"

Burza shook her head, blinking hard. The cruel relentless pounding of the sun, combined with the maddening slowness of the Ent's speech was making her dizzy, and her head was growing heavier. "Master trieda kill me, and I run away."

"Hrmm." The Ent grumbled softly, and with that, he lifted his other leafy, branching arm toward the small orc.

Burza flinched and ducked her heard, fearing that the painful end she feared was coming at last until a cool shadow covered her. Burza lifted her head, finding, to her surprise, that the Ent was simply shading her, holding his gangly wooden limb over her head, so as to cast a shadow upon her.

Wondering, she glanced back at the Ent. Why was this great tree herder doing this small kindness for her? She, who was an orc, whose people had murdered his, cruelly, and mindlessly, who delighted in thoughtless destruction?

"Your race is a murderous lot, _burárum_." The Ent grumbled, and Burza stiffened as his wooden fist tightened slightly. "Usurpers with axes and fire, naught but murder in your hearts."

He made an angry noise deep in his throat, his deep golden eyes flashing fiercely. "I should crush your bones now, for what your heartless, savage kin have done."

Burza flinched within the stiffened wooden fist, and closed her eyes shut, hoping that the Ent would squeeze quickly rather than slowly, and that death would come swiftly, without much pain.

But the Ent did not crush her, not then, and for a long moment, the Ent said nothing. Slowly, she unclenched her jaw, and tentatively cracked one eyelid before slowly opening both eyes, and glancing once again into the face of the Ent.

"But there is something in your eyes-," the Ent rumbled thoughtfully, his golden eyes studying her in solemn thoughtfulness, leaving the rest of his words unsaid.

Slowly with wooden stiffness and soft creaks of his knobby wooden limbs, he turned to the other gnarled faces about him, and a low, grating, sound as of creaking, stretching wood, rumbled forth from the depths of his throat, a slow sonorous tone that was answered by the others. He nodded slowly and turned back to Burza.

"This," he grumbled, glancing again at her, blinking his ageless golden eyes, "will take a long time." He blinked.

"Sit here." He set her down upon a small pile of stones beneath the shade of the steep tattered sides of a gouge that had been raggedly torn into the once unbroken wall of the ring of Isengard. "For we-," he blinked, "are going to decide what is to be done with you," he finished.

Beyond his shoulder, his fellow Ents were gathering near, creaking slowly back and forth amongst themselves as a grove of trees in the wind. The white bark of a tall and gangly Ent near her, was charred badly as if by fire, the cruel black scars licking up its white bark, a harsh reminder of the dreadful fire that had gnawed greedily at it's pristine white flesh before the flood had broken through the dam. The creature moved somewhat more stiffly and slowly than the others, and Burza guessed it was pained from its cruel wounds and she lifted a fist, gnawing nervously at her knuckles, knowing it was the doing of her own people.

"I sorry your friends get cut down an' burnt," she heard herself timorously call out as the Ent began to turn graduallyaway.

The Ent paused, and slowly turned back, a look of surprise and hesitation as his deep golden eyes lighted upon her. "Sorry?" He grumbled as if unsure of what she said. He tipped his head. "You are-," he paused, drawing in a long deep breath, a thoughtful look sifting across his wooden countenance, "_sorry_?"

Burza ducked her head, feeling sudden shame. What a foolish thing to say, she realized. Sorry could never begin to be enough. Friends he had known from tiny green saplings now lay strewn about him half submerged in the quagmire that was now Isengard, rotting as ripped and ragged flotsam, all that remained of the massive wheels and machinery of Saruman, if their corpses had not been burned in the fires of the caverns.

"That is the first time in my memory," the great Ent muttered thoughtfully, "that an orc has told me-," he drew in a slow breath, "_sorry_," he finished, a softened, almost gentle tone in his last word, and what appeared to be a smile began to peel slowly across the wrinkled, aged bark of his face. And then he turned away, and with slow stiffened steps, moved to join the other Ents.

...

Burza sighed to herself, and stretched her lanky legs out in front of her relieved that the sun was at last beyond the western horizon. The cool ebony night was stretching itself across the sky, black like a raven's wing, flecked with the bright specks of stars above her, the unchanging, faultless stars that had looked down upon her at night for as long as she could remember. They were the only friends she had ever had. They seemed to smile at her whenever she lifted her eyes to them, and it seemed almost to her, as if she could hear their faint singing, filtering down to her through the airy firmament. What an odd habit she had, she admitted. No other orcs she had ever known had given the stars such fascinated attention. They were cold and dead, the other orcs would say, and she was a blind dreamer with flowers in her blood for looking at them. But still, she loved them.

Burza shot a momentary glance at the gathered Ents who were still swaying back and forth, moaning and creaking amongst themselves in their slow tree-ish speech. It had been many hours since the oldest moss bearded Ent had set here down, and she wondered why the delay. They must be a very unhurried race, Burza decided, unless of course, they were stimulated into action, as they had been with the destruction of the nearby forest. Of course, she reminded herself, he had warned her that it would be a very long time before they decided what to do with her. Whether to let her go, perhaps, or to squash her beneath their great, splay rooted toes.

She shuddered at this thought, and glanced away from the Ents, and over her shoulder into the deep shadows of the thick gnarled forest. Perhaps she could run away? She thought. Run away through that dark forest, through the maze of their short, squat trunks, over the thick, gnarled roots and far away until she found a cave, nice and dark and moist to curl up inside, with sliming worms living in the cracks, and mushrooms upon the walls to eat.

Running away seemed the best answer, for she was not sure yet if the Ents would show her mercy, orc that she was.

Almost, she stood, almost she jumped down from the wall to run into the moist shadows of the lowering trees. But then, as she hugged the square of little blanket to herself, she thought again of the old Ent's wise, golden eyes, and she stopped. Within them, she had seen a hint of softness, especially after she had told him she was sorry for the loss of his kin. And she settled back down, her mind made up to stay.

With a sigh, she pulled the little blanket out from under her ragged garment, and carefully unfolded it upon her lap. With a silvery light, like starlight, it shone, shimmering with the slightest brush of her mottled, callused hand over the cloth.

Clasping it up in both hands, she drew it up and buried her face into its cool depths, drinking in the sweet scent that lingered upon the shimmering fabric. She closed her eyes, and with a thin smile upon her thick, swollen lips, she tilted her head back, holding the breath deep within her lungs for as long as she could. It smelled distantly of flowers, flowers she could not name, but still brought to mind a distant scene. High mountains, impenetrable, and unbroken, and within the sheltered vale they protected, a lush, green valley. A memory of safety and happiness, and of belonging welled from deep within her, and Burza blinked hard, fighting tears that threatened to surface.

Odd, she thought, for never before had she allowed herself to cry. Even in the worst, most painful memories that had scarred their wounds irremovably upon her heart, she had never cried. She had taken her beatings, and her punishments, and all the other vile abuses that had been meted to her with tearless, unemotional acceptance.

But now, as faces, long forgotten formed in her mind, the tears came harder. Eyes smiled at her, some bright and blue, others warm and brown, or cool forest green. All within fair faces framed by golden hair, or shining jet. And among the faces, one appeared the clearest, his eyes shining above a mouth that was twisted into a good-humored smirk. He was calling something to her, but she could not hear it. One word, over and over he called, but his voice was too faint and far away to hear.

But she knew who he was. And as the memory crashed upon her with the force of a demon's blow, she covered her head with the little blanket, and stuffed a fist into her mouth, fighting the fierce, wrenching sobs that tried to break forth.

"Glorfindel," she choked, "Glorfindel, Glorfindel-,"


	9. Chapter 8

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 8**

**April 30, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 8

Gondolin, 510, First Age

"Ah, little one." The Elf maiden sighed as she held her sleeping charge against her shoulder as she sat with him upon a cushioned window seat gazing out over the star washed city of Gondolin below her, alight with lanterns, and merry voices. "It is long past your bedtime, my dear one. And I must go find my friends before I succumb to sleep as well."

She tipped her head, feeling the warm touch of the sleeping infant's cheek against her own. Dear little Eärendil, beloved son of her lady Idril Celebrindal, and the lord Tuor, who had once come to them as an outsider, but was now one of them, beloved of all the people of Gondolin. And this maiden, of all the women of the city was entrusted with the care of their precious baby, now but seven years old, a round faced, merry little infant who was just now learning to toddle about, and in whose bright sea blue eyes rested the light of heaven.

She smiled gently jostling the baby's precious weight against her shoulder as she began to hum a wordless tune. Eärendil was deep in his sweet infant dreams, but she could not bear to put him in his bed, not now. She would soon, she promised herself. But she stayed with him now, cherishing the moments she held the sweet weight of the baby upon her shoulder. Then she would go find her friends upon the walls, for she did not wish to miss this night, heralding in the great feast, the Gates of Summer. She would sing to the glory of the rising sun with the other maidens, and if she was lucky, and he could find a way to take himself from his uncle's side, Maeglin would come to her.

Her heart jumped lightly in her bosom as she thought of him. The lord Maeglin, nephew to the king, tall and proud, with his firm shoulders, and his dark hair drawn back in elegant braids from his brooding eyes. Something about him frightened her a little, but she did not care. Surely it was only his father's face that she could see in him, for he was not his father, the dark Elf Eöl. He was also his mother's son, the son of the lady Aredhel. A brave, goodly lady, who had borne him in darkness and misery. For journeying beyond the protected girdle of their mountains, she had been taken against her will, by one who had never truly earned her love. And when she had gained the courage to flee at last from Eöl with her son, he had pursued her in his wrath, and slew her, before the very throne of her brother. Eöl was dead now, no longer a threat to their people. And Maeglin was surely no one to fear. He was the son of his father, but he had the power to be more than Eöl had been. Had he not proven himself in battle, time and again?

She smiled to herself, stilling the distant voice of warning in her heart. She had but one heart to give away, and surely she loved him, did she not? Was not this warm thrill of desire that welled in her blood a sign of love, unending? She had never felt such wild stirrings before, not when he looked upon her and smiled, not when his hand touched hers. She wanted him. Badly, she admitted to herself. She had longed for him since he had come to Gondolin with his mother, and his dark eyes and quiet manner had captured her fancy. She had felt herself even more bound to him when his mother had been slain, and his treacherous father cast from the pinnacle of stone to his death. What a lost soul he had seemed, adrift in a city of strangers. And he had noticed her attention of him, and had returned her affection, or seemed to.

She blushed darkly as she lifted a hand and brushed her fingers lightly against the baby's cheek. Maeglin was certainly skillful with his words, she admitted to herself. A tremor shook her heart, a faint warning, but she pushed it away as she rose from the window seat.

"There now, my dearest Eärendil." She whispered as she lay the sleeping infant down within his cradle beside the window, and smoothed a straying lock of hair from his sleep flushed cheek, her finger running over the peaked contour of his tiny ear in the same motion. "Sleep long and well. I will see you, soon enough, when the morning dawns bright."

She bent low, and pressing a kiss against his smooth little brow, she whispered, "I love you, my dear one." And then she straightened, and turned to go.

"Maeglin!" She gasped, suddenly frightened by the silhouette that had appeared silently in the doorway behind her.

Placing a hand over her heart, she uttered a nervous laugh to still its suddenly wild beating. There he stood, tall and dark, adorned in his royal robes, as befitting the king's nephew on this, the eve of the Gates of Summer. How fine he looked, she thought in spite of the nervous twinge that echoed softly deep in her heart.

"Why are you here?" She asked softly. "Why are you not upon the walls with the others?"

"Come now, _lissien_, with you here, alone?" Maeglin muttered low, swaggering into the baby's narrow room, and scooping the maiden into his strong arms. His lips swooped low over hers, but she cringed at the scent of strong drink on his breath, and turned her head to the side.

Maeglin uttered a low grumble of disapproval, but still contented himself with burying his head against her neck, and nuzzling her throat hungrily. "Oh, _lissien_," he muttered, his voice muffled against her throat as his strong arms clutched her ever closer, "Could you but once on this fairest of nights, give me what I have so tireless sought from you for so many years?"

The Elf maiden fought to think. With his warm breath against her throat, his strong arms around her, it was difficult to say no. And now, with his open mouth caressing her bare neck and trailing slowly down toward the soft hollow of her throat, the emotions that he set afire within her, were difficult to quench. Yet still, she knew what it would lead to, even if he as yet, was too deeply in love with her to see the outcome.

"Come Maeglin, I thought we spoke of this, before." She murmured, and gently pushed him away, seeking his eyes through the warm darkness.

"You spoke of it, _lissien_." Maeglin groaned, rolling his eyes, and swaggering backward a step, drawing his arms away from her. "But not I." He shook his head impatiently, and she cringed at the look of disapproval within his eyes. "Why wait? " He drew ever closer to her, and she shuddered at the warm look that came over his eyes. "Do you not love me, dearest?"

"Oh, Maeglin-," she murmured, closing her eyes shut at the plaintive notes of his voice. "I think I do. I am certain I do. But can we not wait to act upon our longings? For me to give into you, could only lead to unhappiness. Do you not remember the misery your father caused your mother? And what of any child that might come of such an unprepared union?"

"Pah," he grunted, disgusted. "I am not as my father."

"I believe you, Maeglin." She sighed, and smiled gently, hopefully, at the slender smile that wound its way across his swarthy, handsome face. "So be the man your father was not, and speak to your uncle, to all the people, of your desire for me, and then we will wed. We will live together in happiness, and our children will be welcomed with joy."

"I am the king's nephew." He muttered, his face once again growing dark. "You are but a servant."

"But there is still hope for us!" She cried catching his hands, quickly lowering her voice as the baby mumbled and stirred behind her. "We need not hide our caring for each other as if it is a shameful thing. The lady Idril is good and generous. Always when her maidens have found husbands, she has rejoiced with them. Surely she would feel much joy for us, for she is not only my mistress, but my friend as well, and you are her cousin, entrusted with much, by her father, the king. You know her. She would be happy for us."

"_I do not know her as well as I would like_." Maeglin muttered darkly, and half beneath his breath. She did not understand the meaning of his words, and passed them off as unimportant.

"Come Maeglin." She urged gently, still clasping his hand, and slowly turning, so as to guide him out the open door of the baby's room. "The night will wane soon, and dawn will come. We will stand upon the walls together, to welcome the dawn of this blessed day."

"No." Maeglin spouted, flinging her hands downward with the tone of an impatient child, and she jerked back, her eyes wide with fear. "I have been patient, with you _lissien_." He spouted, flinging his pet name for her from his tongue like spittle. "You of all the maid servants of the palace are the most blessed, for with your fair form, your golden hair, you look the most like-," he caught himself, and glaring at her, growled through clenched teeth, "I love you. I want you. But I tire of waiting." He leaned closer, his eyes flashing sparks of dark flame. "Give yourself to me, _tonight_."

"Maeglin-," she breathed, her heart growing suddenly chilled within her. "That cannot be. Surely if you love me truly, you would understand this. Love cannot be forced or demanded. Does not the lord Tuor treat the lady Idril with honor? She gives him her favors because she wants to. Not because he demands them of her."

"Do not speak to me of Idril, and that usurping _mortal_." Maeglin shouted, his head lowered, his eyes glaring bitterly at her. Behind her, Eärendil shifted, and moaned softly in his sleep, but did not waken.

She swallowed hard. Maeglin was glaring at her, hungrily, almost as a warg watching its prey. But true love could never be like this. It was as if Maeglin were trying to open a flower, to force it to blossom before it was ready, rather than nurturing it with care and waiting patiently for it to bloom upon its own time. She would not do as he demanded.

"I care deeply for you, Maeglin." She breathed at last, feeling her heart breaking as she spoke. "But I cannot give into you. For your sake as well as mine. For my children, yet unborn." Beseechingly, she held out her hands to him. "Would that they could be yours, as well. Perhaps one day you will understand why-,"

A gasp of icy terror cut off her words as Maeglin suddenly lunged forward, and caught her, pulling her suddenly to him, his arms crushing her possessively against him. "I am a kinsman to the king. A prince, and your _lord_." He growled, his face twisted into a grimace. "You are naught but a daughter of the House of the Golden Flower. It is not given you to say _no_ to me."

Her heart leapt in terror at his words, and her soul wrenched as his mouth, now sour and angry, crush hers beneath it, drawing from her greedily, though she struggled to free herself. Would he truly take her then against her will as his father had his mother? Had she been so wrong all along about him? Deceived by him with all the people of Gondolin? What else then, had he done to betray them all?

Desperately, she wrenched her mouth away. "_Glorfindel will kill you if you do this thing_!" She cried out desperately, hoping against her deepest terror that her words would have an effect upon him.

And so they did, for Maeglin, with a harsh gasp of air, released her, and stepped back. "I will kill him first!" He seethed.

"No, you couldn't." She gasped, pressing herself back against the baby's cradle, her frightened eyes fixed upon Eöl's son, upon his darkling eyes, watching him as he licked his lips, visibly calculating the risk she had now presented to him. His face disgusted her now, and she wondered how she could ever have thought fondly of him. The bitter taste of his rough kiss lingered within her mouth, and she fought the urge to wretch at his feet.

"You think too highly of Glorfindel." Maeglin growled.

"Glorfindel could slay a _balrog_, if he wished." She hissed. "He could kill you, easily." She drew in a gulping breath, and quickly added. "And Lady Idril and her father will hear of this. They will not be pleased."

He crushed his teeth together as he looked out the window beyond her shoulder, and as he did so a leering grin spreading across his face. "The king will hear nothing of this."

"Oh, of a surety, he _will_." She scoffed.

"He will be dead along with Idril's precious Tuor." Maeglin sneered with eyes that were sharp and dark as flint. "And their heads, with the head of your dear _Glorfindel_ will be raised upon pikes, ere long the sun rises."

Narrowing her eyes at the wild light that had leaped into Maeglin's leering gaze, she turned her head, glancing out the nursery window to see a bright red light within the sky. The rising dawn it could not be, for the light was in the north. And at this, her heart collapsed in ashes within her. For already in the distance, beyond the walls and upon the mountains, she saw them coming through the sky like a cloud of locusts, and over the ground as a creeping river of doom.

Beyond the window, she could hear shouts and cries from the others below her as the burning legions of Morgoth drew ever closer, advancing with deadly unchecked swiftness toward the walls of Gondolin.

They were unprepared, she realized numbly. Too confident they had all been, in the safety of their hidden paradise. But Morgoth had found them at last.

"Ai, my, sweet Eärendil! Come, quickly!" She cried, startling the baby awake as she snatched him from his cradle, and turned with him to flee away. This high, bright palace, beneath the tower of Turgon would be an easy target for the balrogs and dragons, whose roars grew louder with each passing moment in her ears. But as she turned to dart out of the room, Maeglin's shadowed form blocked her way.

"For the sake of the Valar, Maeglin, stand aside!" She cried.

"Do you not remember those many days I had been missing?" He snorted, a look of mock sympathy coming over his eyes. "When I returned, you were _so_ relieved."

A lump of anger formed in her throat, for she remembered it well. He had been missing for many long weeks, and when he returned ragged and worn, with the tanned skin of a warg that he claimed had come upon him in the nearby hills and wounded him, she had believed him. He had managed to slay the creature he had claimed so that it could not return across the mountains, and he had been healing in a make shift shelter in the hills these many weeks. She had thrown herself in his arms, sobbing when he had come to her for she had thought him dead. And now the truth of his betrayal planted itself in her heart like a knife's blade. He had been conspiring with Morgoth. He had betrayed them.

"Why?" She cried.

Eärendil wailed flailing his tiny fists about, sensing the distress of his nurse. But his cries were nothing to the cries and shouts of fear and terror that were coming from beyond the window.

"For Idril!" Maeglin shouted back, laughing as the red light in the north grew harsher, and the distant roar of wargs and balrogs, and the undulating throb of dragon's wings upon the air drew ever nearer. "I have wanted her since my coming to Gondolin."

"But she is your _cousin_!" The maiden choked. "Such a thing is crooked and unnatural. It is not the way of the Eldar." She fought an urge to weep in fear. "You would destroy all that we have made, our homes and our lives, simply so that you might possess Lady Idril?"

He smiled, a dark leering smile as a coldness swept through her veins, and the knife of betrayal wrenched all the more fiercely in her heart. "And I was nothing to you." She breathed fiercely.

"You were my toy, if that brings you any comfort." He sneered, leering close and touching a finger softly to her cheek. "Always when I held you in my arms, when I kissed you, always when I strove to persuade you to give yourself to me, you were Idril in my mind."

She closed her eyes tightly at this, unable at last, to keep the tears back.

"Ah, what is this? Tears?" Maeglin asked with mocking gentleness. " Have I broken your innocent heart?"

"T'is not for me that I weep, but for you." The maiden choked. "You could have been more than what you have become. You could have been different than your father. But you have followed his path. When Idril's lord slays you, your soul will never see the Blessed Realm. You will rot in the Abyss that awaits Morgoth and all those who follow him."

"Ah, my _lissien_." Maeglin hissed with bitter sweetness. "I will never die. But you, sweet one, will not live to see the dawn."

She spat in his face. She could think of no other recourse but that. Maeglin staggered back, surprised momentarily, and she took the advantage of his shock and brought up her small hand, balling it into a fist and thrusting it with a sharp crack into Maeglin's face. Her strength, borne by fear, was greater than what either of them had expected, and though Maeglin was by far stronger than she, still, the thrust of her fist was enough to knock him sprawling to the floor. Then tucking her stinging fist about the squirming, wailing baby, she turned and ran with all her might through the high, pillared halls, and toward the open doorway that led out of the empty palace, onto the high terrace overlooking the courtyard below. She could see night sky beyond the open doorway, above a hazy red glow.

"No." She groaned to herself, gasping hard as she stumbled out the doors upon the terrace beneath the high clear sky. From her high vantage at the doors to the king's palace, she could see all about her, that Gondolin was afire. Distant towers nearest the walls, once high and fair, burned like torches, as steam from the many fountains of the city rose up in a hissing, steaming haze, leaving her alone upon a high island the tower steps before her, descending into a thick misty fog.

Taking another step outward in disbelief, she stumbled slightly over something at her feet. She glanced down, only to recoil in horror. An Elf lay at her feet, a young man near her age with hair of dark mahogany. His eyes, the cool shade of green grass, were open, staring up into the night sky where dragons dipped and roared beneath the stars, laying waste to the higher towers about her as screams as if from ghosts unseen, echoed beneath her in the misty streets. The young man was dead, his sword, bathed in black blood still clenched within his fist. She knew who he was, a goodly young man, beloved by one of her friends, another of Idril's maidens.

As a dragon black against the night sky dipped, and snatched a screaming figure from a distant wall into its cruel talons, flinging it with a crack against the side of a crumbled tower, she knew how he had died as she stumbled numbly away toward the edge of the terrace. Where was anyone alive, save for Eärendil and herself, and Maeglin, who would certainly come behind her now at any moment, furious at her in his wrath? Surely now, he would slay her for striking him. And then what would he do to the baby?

Her mind was beginning to sink into despair when she heard a woman's voice, high and frightened, screaming Eärendil's name, and up through the haze and smoke of the tower steps, came the figure of Idril Celebrindal running, her face flushed and frightened. Idril's white flowing gown was stained with smoke, and her hair, once twined elegantly in a golden circlet, fell in a tangled disarray about her neck and shoulders.

"My lady!" The maiden cried, rushing toward her upon the steps as a small glimmer of relief touched her heart at the appearance of a familiar face amid the chaos.

Idril put a hand to her mouth and tears of relief glimmered in her eyes at the sight of her baby with his nurse, and as the maiden hurried near, Idril extended her arms eagerly, clasping her little son to her as the maiden pressed the child into his mother's arms.

Instantly the baby's wailing calmed, and he slung his plump arms about Idril's neck as he tucked his head beneath her chin.

"Nana, nana." He cooed.

"Ah, my baby. I had feared the worst for you." Idril choked, half weeping as she gently grasped the maiden's hand with her own free hand. "May the Valar bless you forever, my friend."

"Your lord, where is he?" The maiden urged. "And Glorfindel?"

"They are coming with my father." Idril gasped, glancing backward, and nodding down into the thick cloud of mist. "Ai, I am glad to find you. Lord Glorfindel has been terrified for you. He will be relieved to know you are unhurt. There are wargs and orcs come, and balrogs with them. They have taken the fore of the city. Ecthelion and many others have already fallen. Come with me, quickly, there is a way of escape-,"

"_My lady_!" The maiden screamed suddenly cutting off Idril's words as a black shadow flashed over them, swooping near. And she shoved Idril and the baby down upon the steps as icy razored claws slashed across her back, and caught about her waist, slabbing painfully through the cloth of her gown, and into her side. But she had no time to realize her pain or cry out before she was lifted like a helpless leaf caught upon a hurricane, up off the steps, and away.

Beneath her, Idril screamed something, perhaps it was her name. She could not tell, for she could not hear beyond the rush of the wind. She could only see as the figure of Maeglin came rushing at last out of the palace, and roughly caught hold of Idril's arm, viciously jerking the fair lady and her baby up from where they had fallen upon the steps.

The maiden's heart failed her then. Idril was lost, and sweet Eärendil with her. All was hopeless. She closed her eyes against the bitterness of her weeping as she felt the dragon's talons loosen, and she felt the empty catch in her body as she began to plummet through the empty air toward the flickering flames, and the steaming fountains below.


	10. Chapter 9

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 9**

**May 1, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 9

An orc staggered along the corridors of Barad-Dûr, searching for something she had lost. Lost long ago, and forgotten, but still she searched for it. What was it she had lost, she wondered? Her arms were folded inward over each other as if she held something against her shoulder, but they were empty.

She sang a low, tuneless song to herself as she staggered along, half bent over against a dull pain in her side. She had been stabbed there once, she remembered. Just before she had fallen into a steaming fountain of burning water. She had clawed her way out to find herself in the midst of a crowd of orcs, her flesh burnt and raw, her hair patched and ragged. They had dragged her away with them, she remembered, back to Barad-Dûr, and here she remained. It was a distant memory, and only one of many painful memories she would rather forget.

But what was it she was looking for? She paused at a ragged doorway within the fire scoured wall, and peeped in, hesitant. This was the room of the human snaga. She tisked her tongue thoughtfully before, with slow reluctance, she shuffled inside. Was what she searched for in here?

In small bay in the wall, upon the stone slab where the woman slept at night, sat a small crumpled cloth. The snaga carried it often with her, the orc remembered. But today, it was left alone. The orc drew near to it, where it had been left crumpled.

The orc poked the shining white cloth. It did nothing. Carefully, with great trepidation, she put a hand on it.

The cloth was smooth beneath her clawed fingers, and slowly she curled her fingers closed, slowly bringing the cloth to her face.

Was this what she was looking for? It smelled sweet. A distant tang. Something danced on the edge of her conscious thought. A vision of a green valley-,

"What are you doing in here?" A stern voice barked behind her, and she spun to see the mortal woman standing before her, a grimace of displeasure upon her face as with a twist of her lips, the human pointed firmly at the ragged stone entrance to her room, indicating that the orc was to go.

No beatings, the orc realized to herself with some surprise as she dropped the cloth, and turned to shuffle away.

"Sorry." The orc muttered. "It pretty."

A short huff of surprise broke from the woman's lips. "What is _your_ name?" The mortal asked, her speech again slow and tentative as if her words came forth with effort.

"Mm, Burza." She shuffled her feet.

Burza shuffled her feet again, timid beneath the mortal's gaze. The woman's mouth was curved upward now, her arms folded as she shook her head in a gesture of disbelief. No one had looked at Burza like that, ever. But somehow, she knew it was a benevolent gesture.

"You, Burza!" A harsh voice barked as a massive orc appeared, its jaw jutting forward over multiple layers of extra skin that flabbered back and forth as it spoke through thick rotting teeth jutting over its upper lip. It lunged through the doorway and snatched the little female by the few strands of her ragged black hair, yanking her out the door, squalling as she went. "You know the rule. No touching the snaga!"

"I no touch the snaga!" Burza squealed as a heavy hand came down stinging, upon her head, flopping her to the rocky floor. "I no touch!"

"Come, Burza. Away from the snaga." The orc rumbled then in a lower voice, its rage calmed for the moment. Snatching the little orc by her skinny wrist, it yanked her along down the ragged, rock strewn corridor.

...

Burza staggered along the corridor, a sack of mouldy bread slung over her shoulder. The torchlight was red and bleary, and the smoke wafted in her eyes.

Perhaps that was why tears were stinging at her eyes, though she grumphed, and blinked them swiftly away. She an orc after all, strong and fearless, or so she was expected to be. She could not remember what made her heart twinge with unhappiness. It could not have anything to do with the new rumour that was being passed about the board when she had gone to meat, that there was another snaga taken from the lands of the men. An Elf, this time. Though the whispers were that it was a special Elf different from the others.

Where was it, she had asked, but she had received dark looks and silence from her fellows up and down the board, and a spat over the head for her pains. And someone had flung a bag of mouldy bread at her, and ordered her to feed the horses.

It was just as well. Burza had sighed to herself, taking the bag and thumping away. Having anyone show even the slightest kindness to her would only lead to pain in the end. It had been countless years since she had spoken to the human snaga. And since then, over the many vague years that seemed moments, and moments that seemed years in the timeless waste where she lived, Burza had not been allowed near the snaga again.

"Outa the way, Burzzzza."

Lifting her blearing eyes, Burza gulped hard, and skittered to the side of the stony corridor at the hissed command. An orc she knew, Gratbag, his name was, came shuffling by, dragging another orc, a dead one, by the ankles. She shuddered as Gratbag dragged his load past, both at the sight of the dead orc, its head flopping awkwardly about, as it bounced over the stony floor, and Gratbag's presence. He was smaller than most of the others, but still stronger than Burza and by far, one of the worst.

"I'll tosssss thisss one in the rubbissh, and then come looking for you, eh?" Gratbag grinned, staring darkly at the female orc, and running his fat, swollen tongue over his lips.

Burza said nothing to this. Instead, she cringed and turned away, scampering quickly in the opposite direction, but not fast enough to hear Gratbag's leering chuckle following her.

The horses, she reminded herself miserably. They needed feeding. It was not such a dismal task, she decided, and renewed the speed of her shuffling feet through the winding hall, and toward their cavernous stable.

But suddenly a scream, akin to the cry of the Nazgûl skewered its way down the corridor, and into her ears, wild and painful, and she dropped her bag, clamping her hands over her large mottled ears. The horses were screaming. Wild, rageful screaming. Something had gotten into their stable, something more than a scabby rat, from the sound of their fury.

Behind her now, adding its din to the shrieking of the horses came a high, warbling blood cry that echoed ever nearer. And several orcs, bearing weapons, appeared round a bend of stone, and torchlight bobbing and waving, drew near as several armored orcs came scampering near.

"Make yerself useful, Burza, and come with us!" A club wielding orc shouted as the group passed her and it snatched her arm, dragging her along, the bag of moulded bread forgotten behind her.

"What'sa wrong?" Burza grumbled, hurrying to keep the pace of her scampering comrades, so that she would not be dragged off her feet.

"Snaga kilt `em!" Her companion shouted with a snarl. "And stolen the Elf baby snaga!"

"No'un told me the Elf snaga wasa _baby_!" Burza wailed, feeling a sudden urge to clutch at the emptiness at her shoulder and gnaw at her knuckles. But she dared not, not with so many of her fellows about. They would mock her for her foolish habit again, and hit her as they had, before.

"Snaga's run off with the Elf baby." The orc continued, yanking Burza along as he talked. "Betcha she's in with the horses, `n' made `em scream." The great wooden door that led into the cave that was the horse's stable was nearing, and with a blood hungry wail, the band of orcs burst through, only to stop short with a surprised huff at the spectral vision of one of the robed Nazgul standing before them in all its shadowed splendour.

Burza blinked in surprise. Something was wrong with this wraith, but the other orcs didn't seem to sense what she did as she looked about her at the cravenly faces that shivered beneath the silent gaze of the shadowed hood. What it was, she was not certain, but she could not feel the black weight of deathless hatred that lingered in the air about the other Nazgul.

"_You._" The single wraith hissed in the fierce breathless whisper in which the Nazgul spoke, pointing to the orc beside Burza. "_Do you wait for the return of Lord Sauron, to saddle and bridle my mount_?"

A single gauntleted hand appeared from beneath the wraith's cloak, and indicated to the pen holding the nearest horse. Burza furrowed her brow. Just this morning, she had been ordered to clean and polish the gauntlets of one of Sauron's lieutenants. She had done her work in here, and left them upon a shelf when she was finished. Burza glanced at the shelf that sat nearby. The gauntlets were indeed gone, along with an old tattered robe that had been hanging nearby, neglected and forgotten for some time. She gulped, and said nothing.

The small orc beside her stiffened fearfully beneath the fearsome gaze of the shadowed hood, glancing between the wraith, and the ten horses behind it, nine of which were nearly going mad with fury, as if they were trying to break down the doors of their pens. Burza's eyes focused upon the one remaining horse, black as the others, but calmer, its head hanging low over the door of its pen in weary rest.

About her, the others were getting restless at the hesitance of the orc that shivered beneath the pointing finger of the single wraith. And finally, with several shoving at him, he started forward.

"Yes, my Lord." The orc, with bent head, scurried into the stall of the one quieted horse, and with shaking fingers, struggled to slip its bridle over its head and secure the saddle as quickly as it could, his fingers slipping in his nervousness until at last, he was finished.

"My Lord." The orc snorted, when it had finished, leading the horse from its pen.

Without speaking a word, the Ringwraith swung up into the saddle, with a fluid grace unusual for its kind, Burza noted. Its face, ever shrouded beneath its hood, glared down on Burza and the other silent orcs once it was settled into the saddle. "_Move aside_." It ordered in a hideous, whisper.

The others as in one body, scrambled aside, and Burza moved as well, though more slowly, her eyes still studying the wraith carefully as she moved slowly out of its path. And as she did, a strange sight caught her eye. A bare foot, pink and fleshed with warm life, and small, like a woman's foot, peaked from beneath the ragged folds of the cloak it wore before the folds of the cloak fell about it. Burza tipped her head to the side. The snaga? She wondered. And then she stifled a gasp, for it all became clear. The snaga was beneath the cloak! And somewhere hidden beneath those ragged folds, she held the baby Elf snaga the others had told Burza about! Burza wanted to cheer aloud, but she dared not, for she would not let the secret be known. Instead, she remained silent, and did not speak as the human snaga hidden safe beneath the ragged cloak, nudged the black horse upon which she rode, out the door and away down the corridor.

"Little baby. Safe now." Burza muttered beneath her breath as she watched the shadowy mounted figure disappear around a wall of rock. The baby would be saved. Something touched Burza's soul then, a little shred of light in the vast abyss that was her hollow heart, comforting that part of her that had been searching for something precious and lost for as long as she could remember. And her cracked and swollen lips curled up in a timid smile.

...

"_Burárum_, little orc."

A voice above her shook Burza from her dreams, and she peeked from beneath the star woven blanket to see the great Ent with the mossy beard and the deep golden eyes gazing thoughtfully down at her.

"Hrm?" She queried sitting up. Was the Ent going to step on her now at last?

The night was fading. In the distant east, a blue light was rising, snuffing out the distant sparks of stars as it slowly climbed higher across the dome of the sky. Morning would come soon, Burza lamented, and with it, the burning, scorching sun.

"Where did you find this?" The Ent asked thoughtfully, touching a wooden finger softly against the blanket.

"I no stoled it!" Burza grumbled, clutching the blanket tightly beneath her chin as if she feared the Ent would take it.

The Ent straightened slightly, and shivered somewhat as if quaking beneath a heavy wind. "It belongs to the little Valië." The Ent rumbled.

"Mm," Burza muttered, hesitant. Then finally, with great reluctance, she pulled it away from her head, and held it out toward the Ent's wooden hand. "You give it back to her?"

The Ent began slowly to reach for the little cloth, but paused, and with a thoughtful rumbled from deep in his throat, drew his hand back.

"No," he rumbled slowly. "No, I must stay here and guard Saruman." His eyes blinked slowly at her as he added, "You may keep it."

Burza blinked at his words, and at his deep golden eyes that sparkled now above a twisted smile upon his bark and asked, "Then you no squash me?"

"No." The Ent said with somber shake of his head. "We will not." He looked past her shoulder out at the gathered trees beyond the wall, and with a heavy meaningful glance his voice growing louder so that it echoed about the forest before her, he added, "nor will my trees harm you while you pass beneath them, hm?"

A low hissing rumble wove through the trees as if in answer to the Ent's words, and a chill shivered along Burza's spine. What would have been her fate, she wondered, had she tried to run away through those very trees the night before? She was glad she would not know now.

"Thank you, ah, master." Burza grunted, scrambling awkwardly to her feet, and cuddling the little blanket closely to herself.

"Ah, you are welcome, little orc." The great Ent returned, the bark of his mouth twisting into a thoughtful expression. "We will probably not meet again, but if we do, you may call me," he sighed long, "Treebeard."

"Awright, Treebeard." Burza mumbled, turning the word over on her tongue. And what was another word for it? She wondered, ah yes, _Fangorn_.

"Well, away with you then, _burárum_. I've important matters to attend to. Off with you." The great Ent waved a hand of dismissal at her. "To wherever your feet will carry you."

And at that, Burza hopped down out of the ragged crack in the wall, and trotted off through the tangled shadows of the trees, her thick soled feet flopping rhythmically beneath her as she scrambled over a rough path. The shadows were close about her, and the air thick. Beneath the trees beyond her sight, a creaking breathy noise followed her as the shadows closed about her, but nothing moved that she could see, and nothing harmed her.

Where would she go now? Back to Barad-Dûr perhaps? No, she shivered at the thought. Not back there. Never there. She was free now, she reminded herself, and thrilled at the thought. Free to do as she pleased, to go where she wished.

North. She would go north. She would follow the line of the mountains as far north as she could, and find where they led. She smiled to herself, and hugged the little blanket close against her as she hopped over a jutting root, pleased with her decision. For the choice settled well upon her mind, and upon her empty shadowed heart as well, which seemed not so empty, nor so black anymore, now.


	11. Chapter 10

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 10**

**May 2, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 10

"Lalaith,"

"Hmm?" Lalaith murmured, lifting her head from the warm curve of Legolas' shoulder and glanced up at his face where they stood together upon the wide veranda that surrounded the Hall of Meduseld.

She smiled as his eyes turned to gaze down into hers. Not even the bliss of Valinor could rival what she felt when she looked into his face, she mused.

Legolas returned her smile, squeezing her gently closer to him before his arms relaxed somewhat, and released her. "The stars in the east are darkening," he said, with a nod at the eastern sky.

Turning within his loosened embrace, Lalaith saw that it was true. The stars were not so bright as before, especially in the eastern sky, as if a veil had been drawn across them.

"Evil is stirring in the east," she sighed, finding comfort as his hands slid to her shoulders, and rested there.

Her hands lifted and brushed across his own, pausing when she felt the cool metal of her ring upon his smallest finger.

"How did you come to find this again?" she asked, running her thumb lightly over the sapphire within its center.

"Boromir had it," Legolas breathed, his heart growing suddenly heavy once again. "He returned it to me before-,"

Within her, Lalaith's heart sank, sensing his words that were coming. "Before he died?" she finished quietly.

He nodded somberly. "He told me to tell you that-, you are worth dying for." Legolas finished in a low voice.

She shuddered at his words, and shrank closer to him, his chest warm against her back, seeking the comfort he willingly gave, circling his arms about her stomach, his jaw pressed warmly against her hair.

"I know he loved you, Lalaith," Legolas continued as Lalaith listened quietly. His voice was bereft of any hint of jealousy, warming her heart. "But such a thing I could never fault him for. He died for you, and for that, I am in his debt, eternally."

"Even though he-," Lalaith hesitated.

To her chagrin, Legolas laughed a soft, brief laugh. "Kissed you?" he finished, a hint of teasing in his tone as he touched gentle lips to her smooth brow. "Do not fear, _Lalaith nin_. I know that what favor you gave him, was out of friendship and pity. Nothing more."

"Ai, how easily you trust _me,_" she sighed, her tone empty.

"Greta's words cast a black web of doubts about your mind." Legolas murmured gently. "Think no more on it, for you saw past her treachery at last."

"Greta spoke to you as well, didn't she?" Lalaith asked gently.

"She-, did." Legolas admitted with a sigh, his voice growing heavier as he spoke. "By some black gift of Saruman, she took on your appearance-, your face, your hair, your form, and yet she was not you-," His face cringed faintly. "I swear to you, Lalaith, I refused her. I didn't-,"

"I know," Lalaith cut in gently, running her hands over his arms curled tenderly about her waist, her soft touch gently silencing him. " I knowYou refused her. A part of me always knew."

"Though we were apart, I could hear your heart calling to mine," Legolas murmured.

A smile grew across Lalaith's face at this, and Legolas smiled as well until her next words brought a sad tremor once again to his heart.

"I felt you as well. And I saw you. Within the fortress against the cliff." She sighed, studying the distant mountain peaks, and lifting a hand to touch the medallion that rested beneath the gown she wore. "And there were other-, Elves there also? I thought I saw Lothirien there."

A long pause followed, while Lalaith at last sensed Legolas' unease, and drew away from his embrace to turn and face him.

"Legolas, what is it?" she asked, her heart catching within her at his furrowed brow and his troubled eyes.

"Lalaith," he began slowly, his reluctance now clear as he stepped forward, and grasped Lalaith gently by the elbows, gently tracing his fingers up and down her arms in a comforting gesture. "There were others," he swallowed softly, "of Lórien, as well as Imladris."

"My cousins?" she demanded, lifting her eyes suddenly.

"Elladan and Elrohir did not come," Legolas soothed her gently, glad for that one comfort he could give her. "It was said by the Elves from Imladris that the sons of Elrond have gone with their sister on a far journey."

He furrowed his brow, his throat constricting at his next words. "But Haldir-," he swallowed softly, "fell at Helm's Deep."

"What?" she breathed, her eyes widening in numb disbelief. Boromir's death she had expected, but Haldir? No, it did not feel right. Something was amiss with what Legolas was saying.

"And orc's blade found him, while he fought upon the Deeping Wall," he explained, tightening his hands about hers as she flinched.

"But he cannot be-, dead," Lalaith moaned softly.

Legolas sighed, his brow softly furrowing. Lalaith must be in shock, he realized. Haldir had always been a dear and trusted friend to her. He lifted his hands, lightly cupping her face, his eyes gazing steadily into her own.

"He is gone, Lalaith," he repeated gently. "We buried him with the others who had fallen."

Lalaith released a long, drawn out sigh, feeling a strange calm steal over her heavy heart, whispering a quiet peace to her as Legolas drew his hands from her face. "What of Lothirien?" she asked.

"She yet lives, though unwillingly." Legolas returned. "She has returned to the Golden Wood for the sake of their child."

"_Ai_," Lalaith sighed, lifting her head. "She carries his child?"

Legolas nodded.

"Then she has not lost all-," Lalaith murmured, wondering why her heart was not grieving, but rather seemed to whisper some hope beyond her memory.

"Ah, Lalaith." Legolas murmured, his voice suddenly thick with emotion as he once again drew her to him, his arms tightening as if he fear to lose her again. "How I had despaired that I would ever see you again. After all this grief and death-,We are blessed to be given these moments together, before the hand of Sauron reaches out once more."

Lalaith relaxed against him as her eyes sought his through the softened night shadows.

"Do not leave me again," he pleaded, and her heart ached at the sudden vulnerability she saw in his eyes. "I would rather that you stayed in safety, but if you must face Sauron's minions, stay with me, that we might meet the peril together."

Of course she would stay. How could she not? She had thirsted for this moment for days that seemed ages since the battle on Amon Hen. She could not bear being parted from him another time. Whatever perils were yet to come, she would surely be at his side. Or-, a chilling shadow passed across her heart, would she?

The creaking groan of the door opening startled Lalaith, stilling any words she wished to utter. And then a voice spoke.

"My lady?" Tentative tones, spoken in the speech of Men, met her ears.

Drawing slowly back from Legolas' embrace, Lalaith turned to face the maiden Éowyn who stood in the doorway, light filtering from behind her. The mortal maiden's hands were clasped as she glanced away, an embarrassed smile twitching at the corners of her mouth as she realized her untimely intrusion.

"Lady Éowyn." Lalaith smiled reassuringly as the slender, golden haired Rohan maiden lifted her eyes and offered Lalaith an apologetic glance. "You know you may call me Lalaith."

"Very well." Éowyn returned, a smile slowly coming to her face as she nodded her accord. "Then to you, I am also simply Éowyn." Her eyes darted between the two Elves, and a warm flush touched her fair, freckled face as she glanced away, secret thoughts flitting behind her eyes. "As the night has grown late, a bed has been prepared for you in the maidens' chambers."

The very word from Éowyn's lips caused Lalaith to realize how weary she truly was. The last many days had been exhausting, to her soul as well as her body, and the thought of a proper bed after so long, seemed a blissful dream come true. Yet-, she turned back to Legolas, seeking his eyes.

"Go on," he urged with a smile, nodding toward the king's niece. "I will remain here for a moment, before I seek out Aragorn, and the others."

A cool wind brushed across the stone porch, catching at his cloak and his hair, and Lalaith smiled.

"Very well." She complied, playfully reaching out and drawing the hood of his cloak over his hair. "But will you be warm alone?"

"With thoughts of you, I will be." He smirked and reached out playfully, to brush his thumb over her chin. "Sleep well."

Lalaith smiled at the tender touch and felt her face warming. "And you," she whispered, catching his hand and giving it a farewell squeeze.

And with a final glance at the muted sparks of veiled stars, she turned away from him, moving at last toward Éowyn and the open doorway.


	12. Chapter 11

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 11**

**May 11, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 11

Legolas stood alone upon the high ledge of the stone terrace that edged the Golden Hall, his cloak folded against himself as he gazed contemplatively eastward. The darkness drawing across the stars seemed only thicker now, wafting across the sky like distant, sinister smoke, floating across the stars as it went. There was a blackness growing in the east, and beyond it, an unseeable hatred. Sauron was groping sightlessly for the ring, Legolas could sense. And, in his dark desperation, for any power he could harness to his black will to gain it.

He felt a presence behind him, a scuffing of boots approached.

_Aragorn_, he knew, before he even turned to look at the somber face of the mortal as the destined king of Gondor paused beside him, his own troubled eyes lifted to the darkening sky.

"The stars are veiled." Legolas murmured softly, to which Aragorn released a low breath. "Something stirs in the east. A sleepless malice." He turned to glance at the young mortal as he somberly murmured, "The eye of the enemy is moving."

To this, Aragorn tightened his jaw thoughtfully and said nothing. And the Elf and mortal remained in silence, side by side, gazing with silent unease, into the darkening east.

...

"Ah, my lady, I have never seen hair so fine in all my days!" sighed a young, smooth faced girl, light brown hair hanging loosely about her shoulders as she combed dreamily at Lalaith's tresses of silken gold. "It is smoother than the finest linen to the touch." The girl, only one of a flock of others, who were fawning and cooing over the Elf maiden knelt behind her on the cot that had been set up for Lalaith within the sleeping chamber of the maidens of the Golden Hall, Éowyn's servants, as well as daughters of the nobles who served the King.

"And your hands!" Breathed another girl settling near Lalaith, her white sleeping gown billowing about her as she seated herself, and took up one of Lalaith's fair slender hands turning it over, to examine it. "One could not believe that you have ever slain _orcs_ with such hands as these! Why, they're as white and smooth as cream!"

A low murmur of pensive longing rippled through the group of maidens clad in their sleeping gowns, and flocked like so many white birds about Lalaith as they sadly surveyed the rough state of their own hands.

"I have a few calluses," Lalaith said, her voice somewhat tense as she ran her hands over the slightly rough parts, to show the girls, though, she did note with chagrine, that her hands were still finer and smoother than the hands of the mortal maidens.

Lalaith cast a glance at Éowyn who stood at a cot near the wall, slowly folding a coverlet. Like Lalaith, the king's niece had not yet changed her gown for her sleeping shift, and instead moved about the room, readying the cots of the others girls. Éowyn shot her a sympathetic smile, though she too, inadvertently dropped a glance to her own hands, and the rough calluses they bore.

"And you are so fair!" A dark haired maiden with misty, worshipful eyes, breathed, from where she lay flopped upon a cot before Lalaith, her chin propped into her hand. "What I would do to be as lovely as you."

"Are all the women of your race as pretty as you are?" The girl combing her hair behind her murmured dreamily.

At this, Éowyn dropped the coverlet upon the end of the nearest cot with a sigh, and glanced away, touching a hand to her face, lost in her own thoughts. A look of muted sorrow flitting across her expression, to which Lalaith gulped softly, feeling the strings of her heart tugged upon. Éowyn held a secret hurt over something, and Lalaith was sorry for her.

"_Pah_, I care not about the beauty of the women of her people!" Another girl, her bright, generous face liberally sprinkled with freckles, guffawed loudly, shaking her flaming red curls about her head as she laughed. "I want to know about the _men_! For we were _cloistered_ away in the caves when your kinsfolk came to Helms Deep!"

A trill of eager laughter tittered through the group, and the girls as one leaned closer to Lalaith, their youthful faces growing suddenly eager. But Lalaith's face slowly began to fall at the thought.

"Yes, tell us," the dew eyed maiden pled, "for they were so brave and noble to come and save us in our need. Are the men of your people _all_ as handsome as Lord Legolas?"

A giggle shot nervously through the group, and many silent exchanges passed between youthful eyes at the mention of his name.

"Come now, my friends." Éowyn said at last, striding near with the air of a patient mother as she flashed Lalaith a knowing, apologetic look. "Do you think such a question just? After all, Lady Lalaith is _betrothed_ to Lord Legolas. She loves him." Éowyn's brow twitched with some hidden emotion but she smiled good-naturedly as she continued. "Surely in her eyes, none can compare to him."

A sigh moved over the girls at this, and heads nodded in sad acceptance of Éowyn's words.

"Come now," Éowyn added, shooing girls one way and the other. "Lady Lalaith is our guest, and doubtless is very weary. To your beds with you! The night has grown late."

With many groans, and reluctant looks, the girls at last began to depart, still whispering amongst themselves as they moved to their own cots scattered about the room. Here and there, girls snuffed out the lamps that were hanging upon the walls, and a warm cloak of darkness fell over the room, broken only by the muted starlight that filtered in through the single window in the outer wall.

Lalaith smirked as the other girls settled into their beds and she cast Éowyn a grateful look as the king's niece lowered herself to the cot beside Lalaith and smiled at her as she handed the Elven maiden a folded night gown.

"I am sorry." Éowyn sighed, with a shake of her head as she turned affectionate eyes on the other girls as they moved away. "They admire you. They do not mean to be so stifling."

"I do not mind." Lalaith agreed with a smile. "I am glad that I give them something to divert their thoughts away from the coming darkness."

"You and-, your companions have done our people a great service." Éowyn returned, then she turned her eyes down upon her hands which were folded in her lap, kneading each other nervously, before she lifted her eyes once again, and in a plaintive breath, murmured, "Lord Aragorn has brought hope to the men." Her brows twitched sadly as with an unreadable expression, Éowyn stood, and made her way to the window, gazing out into the darkened night.

"I envy you, Lalaith." Éowyn murmured softly, and almost to herself. "Would that _I_ too, could fight beside the man I loved."

What was it Éowyn meant? Lalaith frowned softly at the mortal maiden's back. Éowyn stood stiffly, her stance rigid, her arms folded tightly, while her long unbound hair, the only part of her that moved, lifted softly in the small breeze that brushed through the window. Lalaith sensed the mortal maiden's desperate need for reassurance, but felt uncertain as to how to help her. She wracked her memory, struggling to recall what Aragorn had told her of this slender, fearless shieldmaiden on their return from Isengard. Éowyn was much like Lalaith, Aragorn had said, as skilled with a blade as any man, and bearing a heart of dauntless courage. Yet, Lalaith wondered, perhaps her uncle the king opposed her going to war as she wished. And that, Lalaith surmised, was the reason for her despondent words.

After a moment, the Elf maiden stood as well, leaving the nightgown forgotten beside her and slowly made her way across the room, past the other maidens, who, in spite of their earlier protests, were already fast asleep. She reached Éowyn's side at last, lifting her own eyes to the high domed sky, where a veil, as a grey curtain seemed to be drawn across the stars from out of the east.

"Whatever path your heart bids you to follow," Lalaith murmured softly, "take it. For though you cannot see the end, I do not doubt but that it will be far greater than what you now dream it to be."

The mortal maiden turned to glance at Lalaith as the Elf maid spoke, studying her eyes with quiet pleading as she drank in her words. And Lalaith wondered at the own surety she heard within her own voice, and felt within her heart.

"War is coming again, and soon." Lalaith continued softly, studying the faded stars, sensing the darkness that writhed like a great worm in the distant east. "The future is uncertain. But we cannot let our courage fail us." Lalaith sighed, her words tentative and slow as they came forth, for she realized she was speaking to herself as much as she was, the mortal maiden. "The eye of the enemy is seeking us out-,"

Her words stopped, choking in her throat as a great black weight, as of a heavy pall fell over her mind, and she gasped suddenly, clutching a hand hard at the windowsill.

"What?" Éowyn blurted, concern sharp within her voice. "Lalaith, are you alright?"

"_He is here_!" Lalaith gasped hard, regaining her strength at last as she pushed herself away from the window, and rushed through the dim room for the doorway, Éowyn following behind her, dodging sleeping cots as she struggled to follow the Elf maiden.

Through the heavy oaken door Lalaith plunged, and into the outer chamber where low burning torches cast wierd, mottled shadows along the walls. He senses beckoned her furtively to another door across the hall, and to this her feet swiftly carried her, barely aware of Éowyn scurrying behind her, or the swift pounding of boots as others, summoned by the same heavy forboding, drew near.

"You cannot go in there," Éowyn protested breathlessly scampering near as Lalaith wrenched on the door latch "that is where the men-,"

But Lalaith was already through the rough hewn door, half expecting to see a great orc, or a black robed Nazgûl standing ominously in the center of the room, in the midst of ruin, and death. Yet what she saw, tore at her heart as painfully as the vision of one of Sauron's minions could have.

A gasp came from Éowyn who caught herself in the doorway behind her at the sight before them, but Lalaith did not hear her.

"Pippin!" she screamed.

The young Hobbit was sprawled upon the floor, the palantir that had once been sheltered in Gandalf's cloak, was now a globe of burning flame clenched between his small hands as his dear little face contorted with an agony Lalaith could not fathom.

She did not think. She did not choose. She threw herself upon her knees beside the flailing Hobbit, and snatched the blazing ball from out of his rigid hands.


	13. Chapter 12

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 12**

**May 15, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 12

In a moment, her whole world plunged into a black void of nothingness. And before her, encompassing all that her vision took in, was an eye, a great, burning slit of an eye. She remembered seeing it once before, for a brief moment, those many months before at her uncle's council in Imladris. When Frodo had first presented the One Ring to the Council, and Gimli had struck it with his axe, she had seen, for a brief moment, a vision of this great burning eye.

But now it was before her, raging, and real. Taking up all that she saw, and she could see not escape it. No refuge was there for her, from its blazing gaze. Within the empty blackness of the slitted eye, she could see, almost as if it were a reflection of what the eye could see, a vague image. A high white city, it appeared to be, and within the city, a tree, dead and dried as a white bone, in a stone courtyard. Though its image was surreal and transparent, reflected against the nothingness that was within the eye. In a moment, the vision was gone, washed away like dust before a great wind. For now, the empty slitted eye had turned its focus upon her.

Naked she felt before its gaze, unsheltered, friendless in the black void that had swallowed her world.

It surveyed her, briefly, before a black wave of furious surprise rippled out from the eye.

"_So_," a voice growled low in a weak though hate filled hiss that seethed from the eye, "_At last, we meet again, young one. Long have I wondered where you had fled. Long have you eluded my servants. And now, you dare to show your face to me once more? Insolent child. Tell me your purpose. Tell me of the small one I saw. The Hobbit, he called himself. Has he my ring? Where is it?_" She could feel a blackened will prying at her, as if struggling to know her mind. To force her to reveal her thoughts. But she steeled her heart, and fought the evil will of the eye. It could not know of Frodo, and the lonely quest to Mordor that he and Sam had taken. For were she to reveal her knowledge, all would be lost.

"_Think you that you are beyond my reach_?" The voice from the eye hissed, vile and angry that she would not so easily open her mind to its will. "_My ring will yet return to me. As you will. You cannot escape your doom, fairest child of the stars_."

"Lalaith!"

A man's voice nearby cried out suddenly, and the black nothingness of the void that had surrounded her, and the searing, wretched pain of the blazing eye vanished.

She found herself kneeling upon the stone floor, sweat soaking her limbs, her body drained and limp, and she would have fallen, but for warm, firm hands at her shoulders, that steadied her and held her up.

Pippin, shivering and pale, and damp with sweat, lay flat upon his back before her, staring blankly up at the ceiling and gasping.

Aragorn knelt weakly beside her, and Lalaith realized he had been her savior. He had wrenched the stone from her hands, but he had managed to loose it. The palantir was now tumbling away rumbling as it rolled from them over the stone floor, almost as if seeking some way of escape. But its tumbling ended abruptly as Gandalf strode near, and cast a cloak over it, halting its flight.

"Lalaith," another voice murmured her name. It was Legolas' voice, she recalled wearily, and she realized it was he she felt kneeling at her back, his hands cupping her shoulders, firmly, yet gently, his solid touch stilling the wild pounding of her heart and the fear that trembled through her body at the memory of the blazing eye, and the city within its sight, the city she knew could only have been Minas Tirith, and the white tree of the king that Elrond had taught her of.

As if from a distance, she could hear Gandalf tromping near, his stern voice scolding the yet inert Hobbit, but she hardly heard as she felt Legolas turn her about, her weak form complying easily as his face, etched with worry, came into her view.

"Are you hurt?" He demanded softly, and to his question, she lowered her eyes to her hands, half expecting to see her palms charred and blistered. But they were not, though they still trembled, cupped upward as if they still held the palantir between them.

She shuddered, and said nothing. Her tongue felt heavy within her mouth. And all of her body felt weighted, as if from a long trial that had wracked her endurance to the utmost. Even with the uruks on the Plains of Rohan, she had not felt so exhausted. The will of the great burning eye had taken much from her. And its horrific image, as well as the words it had spoken, still washed her mind in fear in spite of Legolas' nearness, and the protective care she saw within his eyes.

Nearby, Éowyn had lowered herself to her knees before Aragorn. Her hand rested gently upon his arm, and she was studying him with as much tender concern in her eyes, as Legolas held in his own gaze for Lalaith.

Lalaith blinked at Éowyn's tender expression, but was too weary to wonder what it meant.

"Lalaith?" Legolas continued, when she said nothing.

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, for the hateful staring eye still burned through her memory. And heedless of the many eyes watching, Legolas lowered his head and pressed a tender kiss to her cold brow.

"Say something-," He murmured, drawing back.

The warm touch of his lips against her face brought her again to reality, and she shuddered, suddenly needing his reassurance, and leaned into him, grateful to be folded into his more than willing arms.

"Don't let him find me. Don't let him take me." She whimpered. Her voice was small and fearful, and she felt a pang of shame.

But Legolas seemed not to care, for she felt him nodding, his chin against her hair. "I won't." He whispered.

"Who Lalaith?" Another voice asked, and she knew it was Aragorn, recovered from his brief touch against the palantir.

She felt his hand upon her arm, and she glanced at his familiar face at his furrowed, worried expression, and beyond his shoulder, Éowyn, who sat back upon her feet. Théoden's fair niece was no longer looking at Aragorn. Her hands were folded in her lap as she glanced, almost sadly, away. Beyond Éowyn, Gandalf knelt over Pippin while Merry hovered at the wizard's shoulder.

Pippin was pale and his movements were weak where he lay against a pile of robes, but he was breathing, thankfully and speaking as well, though in soft broken words. His words were weak, and Lalaith could not hear him.

"Who wants to hurt you?" Aragorn asked again, softly, gently squeezing his hand upon her arm. "Who did you see?"

Lalaith flinched at the memory Aragorn's murmured words had brought back, and she shuddered again. Legolas' thumb drew across her cheek, bringing her a measure of courage, and she muttered, "_Him,_ I saw him."

"Him?" Legolas queried softly.

Comforted by the touch of his warm arms about her, she quietly muttered, "I saw Sauron."

"_Ai_," Legolas breathed, and she felt Aragorn shifting his weight beside her, though the brotherly touch of his hand did not leave her arm.

"He asked me of the Ring." She gulped. "I told him nothing. But-, I think he believes Pippin has it."

"Sauron thinks that, does he?"

The abrupt voice came from above her, and she lifted her head to see Gandalf towering above, gazing at her with a stern, though gentle expression upon his face. Beyond him, Merry was kneeling at Pippin's side, the younger Hobbit sitting up, somewhat recovered, as his older kinsman, having been given a cup of something, offered him slow sips. At Gandalf's words, Merry glanced over his shoulder, and gazed somberly at Lalaith before he turned back to Pippin again.

She nodded. "He spoke to me of Pippin. He did not say his name, for I do not think he knew it. He asked if he had the Ring." She drew in a breath, and leaned slightly back from Legolas, and he let her go a little. "But I told him nothing. Not even of Frodo."

"Good." Gandalf shook his head, and a smile turned at his lips as his wrinkled eyes studied her own. "We would have been lost, had you weakened. Your strength of will overcame Sauron's. You did well, my dear."

She smiled at the praise she saw in Gandalf's eyes, and felt a surge of strength in herself again. But remembering the last words that had seethed from Sauron's eye, her thoughts grew troubled and her smile faded.

"Oh, but Gandalf-," she stuttered, drawing herself from Legolas' sheltered embrace, and looking plaintively up at the wizard whose expression grew to match her own as he awaited her next words, "Sauron knows I am the daughter of Elbereth," she drew in a tremulous breath, her voice filling with worry, "Mithrandir, he knows who I am."

At this, Gandalf's face became grave, and he drew in a deep, heavy breath.


	14. Chapter 13

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 13**

**May 20, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 13

Burza's feet were weary.

She had been running at a slow loping pace all day beneath the shade of these trees, along this twisting, rutted trail, in what she guessed was a northward direction, from the shaded light that leaked weakly through the twisted branches above her head. And now, she wanted to rest. And eat.

She scowled, and put a hand upon her scrawny belly. She could feel the touch of the little square of silver cloth beneath her ragged garment, and beneath that, the churning of her stomach. She had eaten nothing since she had been in Orthanc, and that had only been a dried lump of bread the day before, that had left her hungry even then.

The trees about her groaned and muttered beneath the low breath of wind that stirred here in the close, green trees as she stumbled to a stop, and flopped down upon a boulder. But Burza paid no heed to them. Treebeard had decreed she would not be hurt, and she knew they would obey his command. Catching up one of her weary feet, she rubbed the mottled flesh of her sole in an effort to restore some strength to the tortured limb as she smacked her lips, wondering what food she could find beneath these wild, untamed trees.

Before her, the bushes rustled. Her eyes jerked in the direction of the sound, and her foot hit the ground with a flop of disbelief as a fat little rabbit came plopping out, busily munching at the rich, low hanging greenery, unaware of the orc seated but a pace away.

Burza gaped. She had seen no sign of any living animal, other than herself, in all this trackless forest. But now here was a rabbit. A fat juicy one, she realized, and she felt her mouth watering as the little animal lopped nearer, busily chewing, its tall narrow ears peaked, covered in a soft grey down, and laced with delicate pink veins.

Burza shifted her weight, and the little rabbit looked up. Its brown eyes gazed straight into hers, and her keen senses smelt the hard, delicious taste of its sudden fear. It bolted, and the slender orc burst after it.

The smell of the little creature's fear wafted to her nostrils deliciously, and she scampered even faster after the rabbit that flew over rocks and under bushes in its flight to escape the hungry orc pursuing it. It dashed one way and the other as they plunged farther into the shadows from the trail, frantically trying to throw her off, but Burza moved as nimbly as the frightened little animal, tailing it unwaveringly. She smiled to herself as at last, the terrified little beast found itself trapped in a narrow, hollow place between the two jutting roots of a great tree, its only escape blocked by the hungry orc.

Desperately, the little animal pressed itself back into the tree hollow as far as it could, but to no avail. For Burza pounced near, flopped upon her knees and reached into the shaded hollow, clapping a hand over the little creature's back. The rabbit stiffened beneath her claw and struggled weakly, though she only tightened her fist.

The fur beneath her hand was warm and soft, the little ridge of its spine stiffened in fear. And suddenly a sensation stole over her heart, soft and warm, like the emotion she had felt when she had picked up the little baby creature, the Hobbit. The rabbit was afraid. It did not want to die. And the wave of empathetic compassion welled only higher within her at this knowledge.

Her stomach growled. Her belly was empty, and her body was beginning to feel the effects of her hunger. She was tired, and her body was weakening, especially now after her furious pursuit of the rabbit. Her orcish instincts demanded she give no thought to the poor creature's plight, but simply to wrench it from its hiding place, and tear mindlessly into it, ripping the meat from its bones. But something beneath her orcish soul and heart cried out in self reproach. Something sweet and warm that was growing slowly to life, like a delicate, springing flower, begged her to spare the rabbit such a painful death as she meant for it.

Her hand opened, and withdrew from the hollow. The rabbit glanced at her in what she imagined to be a look of wondering confusion for a fractured moment, then bolted past her and away, its furry hindquarters surging, its little cottontail flared as it plunged into the deep undergrowth and was gone.

Plopping her full length tiredly to the ground, Burza dropped her chin onto her fists. What would she do now? The trail was lost, somewhere behind her. And she was hungry. So terribly hungry. What would she do for food? Aside from the rabbit, she had seen nothing but trees and low undergrowth for so very long. Would she die of hunger before she reached the edge of Treebeard's woods, in spite of his mercy?

She laid her arms upon the ground and dropped her head upon them, her gaze going to the side of the small clearing where she lay.

But then her head shot up again. For before her, she saw a low, leafy bush. One she had not seen in the moments before. Amongst the leaves, bright spots of color peeked out here and there.

She hopped up, dusted the front of her ragged garment free of twigs and leaves, and took a step nearer to the bush. Red little lumps, bulbous little things grew upon the bush, and Burza approached carefully, tipping her head to one side and the other in befuddlement. She had seen something like this, long ago, but she could not remember where or when. Nothing so green and colorful grew near Barad-Dûr. And Isengard had become nothing but a waste of ragged land long before she had been dragged there.

Reaching tentatively out, she touched one of the bulbous things with her long, crooked finger. It swayed on the bush, and did nothing. Carefully pinching the thing between her thumb and forefinger, she plucked it with a soft pop, from the stem, and with a grimace, plopped it into her mouth.

_Ai_! Burza gasped with delight and her eyes opened wide at the exquisite sweetness that burst into her mouth as she chewed. It was called a berry in the Common Tongue, she remembered now. _Puicca_ in-, another. She chewed more swiftly, and her hands reached greedily for more, plucking the small tart fruits and shoving them into her mouth as fast as she could chew and swallow them, gradually filling her empty belly.

The wonderfully tart taste sparked her memory and filled her mind with vague images, and in her mind she saw fields of bushes of this same kind, laden with small red berries like these. She held a basket over the crook of one arm. Her hands were smooth, her fingers tapered and fair, though stained slightly with berry juice. And she was picking handfuls of small red berries, and dropping them into the basket she held, weighting it, though in her gladness, it was not heavy for her to bear. It was a bountiful crop this season, and she was pleased.

Upon the air, a voice called, though she could not hear the word he spoke from the breeze that brushed about her. Still she smiled, for she knew the voice. She turned, brushing a lock of golden hair from her eyes to watch him. He waved at her as he approached, and she smiled at the way the morning sunlight caught off his golden hair as he came striding toward her. She lifted her free hand, and waved back.

Burza choked and coughed, and stopped her hurried eating. She sniffled at the image that faded now from her mind as she found herself once again back in the shadowed forest before the leafy bush, already stripped of half its berries.

"Glorfindel." She muttered beneath her breath. And a sad weight came over her heart. She glanced again at her hands, stained with the red juice of berries. Curved and clawed they were, scarred from countless beatings, the skin mottled and grey.

She thought of the fair hands she had seen in her memory, white and unblemished, as she plucked these same berries. Innocent she had once been, unscarred, untained by evil. Could she ever dream to be that way again? Her heart despaired at the thought, and she sat down hard upon the ground, pressed her face into her ragged gnarled hands, and began, once more, to cry.


	15. Chapter 14

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 14**

**May 29, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 14

"Silly Elfling." Glorfindel smiled, stopping before the Elf maiden, and reaching out his hand, touching her brow. "You've gotten berry juice on your face."

"Ah?" She breathed, touching a hand to her forehead where she had brushed the lock of golden hair from her before her eyes. Sure enough, it came away wet with the crimson juice of berries.

"Here, my little one. I'll get that."

From within his tunic, Glorfindel produced a handkerchief, and the maiden rolled her eyes.

"It's just a streak of berry juice, Glorfindel. I'm not bleeding," she grumbled, but held obediently still nonetheless as the older Elf proceeded to wipe the handkerchief across her brow. "Sometimes you are a bit overprotective."

"It is my duty to be!" Glorfindel answered brightly, stepping back. "And a very glad duty to bear, it is," he added, flicking his finger playfully over the tip of her nose, to which she smiled.

His face darkened slightly, and he looked downward as he tucked the handkerchief away. "But with that Maeglin-,"

"Maeglin is a fine man, Glorfindel," she countered suddenly. "Why can you not see that?"

He shook his head, looking up at her, pity heavy within his eyes as he smiled sadly. "You have such a tender heard, _onómë_. But you are trusting the wrong man. There is something dark in him. Something he keeps hidden-,"

"And what is it? What has he done, that you think him unworthy of me?" she shot back.

Glorfindel seemed suddenly worried, and for a moment, the maiden felt a stab of guilt. He did not wish to argue with her.

"I do not know if he has _done_ anything, so much as he keeps his dark plans hidden in his heart." He looked up at her, a sad grimace upon his face.

"Would you choose my mate for me?" she grumbled to the ground.

Glorfindel sighed. "I would have you love whom you will."

"I love Maeglin."

"I do not think you do. Not in the deeps of your heart where true love is. That as yet, I think has gone untouched."

"And how do you know my heart?" she countered, her voice quavering. "You, who has never found one to love yourself? How can you know of love?"

"I know that Maeglin does not truly love you," he grumbled, though his voice was gentle, and he came forward to grasp her elbows. " Not with the way he looks at you. He wants you, to be sure, but not in a way in which I approve. And you should not approve of it either. Not if you wish for lasting happiness."

The maiden opened her mouth to protest, but her argument died away, as a shard of truth drove painfully through her heart.

"When you find one to truly love, it will be for more than the physical pleasure Meaglin wants from you," Glorfindel muttered gently. "He will love you for the goodness in your heart as I do, and not only for your fair beauty."

"Ah, my friends! I heard my name! You are speaking well of me, I hope?"

The nearby voice, though at first seemed bright in greeting, carried beneath it, a darkened hint of warning. Maeglin, the king's nephew, came striding near, his eyes bright, and his smile broad.

The maiden's eyes shot to the ground at Maeglin's approach, and she felt the rush of heat rising in her cheeks. The way he walked toward her, striding so easily with the smooth grace which was his-, the way his thin tunic brushed across the muscles of his chest-, Her thoughts darted to what Glorfindel had just spoken of, and she wondered truthfully for a moment, what it was about Maeglin which attracted her so. Was his heart as good and gentle as Glorfindel's? Were his words and actions to her, honorable, and respectful?

She drew in a ragged sigh as a troubled thought made her brow furrow. For she could think of no other reason, aside from his alluring masculine beauty, that caused her to believe she loved him. Her heart faltered. Love could not be that way. Not truly. But as she looked back up at the king's nephew, she swiftly forgot what Glorfindel had said.

"Maeglin." She smiled, and let the dark haired Elf snatch her by the waist, kissing her hungrily, and she wondered for a fractioned instant if perhaps he did it, for no other reason, but to goad Glorfindel.

"How are you, this fine morning, _lissien_?" Maeglin asked playfully as his mouth released her, and smiled down upon her.

"Well, Maeglin. Very well, thank you." She smiled, though a part of her mind balked that he would clutch her so posessively. "And you?"

"How could I be anything but perfect, in the presence of such a fair vision as you are?" he teased in return.

She ducked her head, smiling, and he at last, at a glance to Glorfindel, released her and stepped back.

She glanced at Glorfindel as well, and pursed her lips at his arms folded across his chest, his face stormy as he eyed Maeglin.

"Shall we go on a walk together, just you and I?" Maeglin asked brightly in deliberate ignorance of Glorfindel's challenging eyes.

"She has not finished her duties here, yet." Glorfindel interrupted abruptly.

"I can think of a few ah, _duties_ she has yet to-," Maeglin seethed, "-perform."

Glorfindel did nothing but scowl at Turgon's nephew as Maeglin smiled.

"Come then, my dear." Maeglin finished, reaching for her hand.

But a sudden clap upon Maeglin's shoulder stopped him, and she turned as Glorfindel leaned meaningfully toward the king's nephew, and whispered in a hushed voice, meant for Maeglin alone, "_Lay one finger upon her, and by the Valar, I swear I will kill you_."

She gulped and dropped her eyes, pretending she had not heard.

"_I have friends, Glorfindel, chief of the House of the Golden Flower_." Maeglin muttered in return. "_You could not reach me_."

"_If I couldn't Lord Tuor would_." Glorfindel returned smoothly. "_He and his lady are not so foolish as you wish to believe_."

To this, Maeglin said nothing. He simply smiled as if the two were friends, and had traded kindly pleasantries. But there was also fear hidden behind his eyes.

"Very well," he said aloud cheerfully, and with a smile and bob of his head, bid them fairwell.

"I will see you later, Maeglin?" she called to his back as Maeglin with head held high, strode away.

"Oh, most assuredly, my _lissien_." Maeglin called back, turning his head to flash a dark smirk at Glorfindel before he turned away once again.

"Glorfindel-," the maiden muttered as she turned away, and began to pluck with vengeance, the berries from the bush she stood beside. "Why must you always be that way to him?"

"Do not be angry, I beg you, _onómë_." Glorfindel murmured, pain in his voice, "I do what I must, for I wish nothing vile such as he plans, to happen to you."

Softly, he came up behind her, placing the warm weight of his hands upon her shoulders.

She did not turn to him, and she sensed that her aloofness hurt him as she pretended to busy herself plucking berries.

But at last, she sighed, and her shoulders sagged. And slowly, her hand lifted to cover his where it rested upon her shoulder.

"_Ai_, Glorfindel. I cannot always be angry with you, no matter that we disagree," she sighed softly, turning toward him, and lifting penitent eyes to his. "You are too good to me."

"It is my duty to be," he sighed, and added, a lightness coming to his voice, "And a very glad duty it is for me to bear."

She smiled. And with that, he placed a gentle kiss against her brow.

Burza snapped awake, the dream fading as swiftly as the light of morning seeped through the plaited branches of Fangorn's forest and into her dreams. She sat up, sniffling and wiped at her eyes, though she could not remember why. She had fallen asleep crying, she remembered, tired from her long run. But why would she still be crying, now?

_Glorfindel_. The name echoed again in her mind.

Burza sighed, and looked up once again at the berry bush, half stripped of its fruit, and a lingering sensation of regret folded over her heart.

She was vile and evil and foolish. Far beyond redemption. But still she must try to undo what she had done. She must try. She must keep going north. Her heart drew her that way.

Reaching into her ragged garment, she snatched out the little blanket and once again ran her gnarled hand over it, smiling at the way the light flickered off of it at the briefest touch. Unfolding it, she lay it carefully upon the ground, and hopped up, busying herself once again with the gathering of the small berries that remained. But this time, she did not snatch at them in such greedy haste as she had before. And instead of shoving them into her mouth, she tumbled them carefully upon the little blanket into a slowly growing pile.

For she sensed she had far to go, and would need her strength.

A slow wind, warm and lazy, stirred about beneath the trees as Burza worked, plucking berries and adding them to the growing pile upon the little blanket. It brushed about her, flicking a portion of her hair in front of her eyes.

Unthinking, she lifted a hand to brush it back, but as she did, she stopped, clutched the long skiff of hair, and looked at it carefully.

For as long as she could remember, her hair had been dark, stringy and wirey, skiffed thinly over her head. But this lock of hair seemed finer between her fingers. And-, perhaps it was the light, Burza wondered, the weak filtering light that made it so. But it seemed to her as if her hair was fading in color. For it seemed in the green grey light of Fangorn, a golden mahogany brown.

She shrugged, cast the thin lock of hair back upon her head and continued working.


	16. Chapter 15

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 15**

**June 2, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 15

"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes."

Lalaith sighed somberly as Gandalf's grave tones echoed through the great hall, her eyes following him from where she stood as the white robed wizard strode thoughtfully before the fire within the center of the room. The gown Éowyn had gifted to her, hung limply from her shoulders in the warm, still air, the long flowing sleeves hanging against the skirt like the wilted leaves of a flower as her hands clasped each other.

Behind her, Legolas stood motionless, his hands cupping her shoulders lightly, a simple gesture of protectiveness, bringing much needed comfort to her heart as Aragorn and Gimli stood on either side of the two Elves, their eyes riveted, as were hers, upon the wizard. Théoden stood near the fire, watching the wizard, a thoughtful look upon his worn, pensive face. Across the room from her were the two Hobbits. Pippin, swallowed up in the wooden chair upon which he sat his feet dangling, carried a timid expression of dejection upon his sweet face while Merry stood faithfully nearby.

"A fool-, but an honest fool, he remains." Gandalf murmured, casting at Pippin, a glance of gentle forgiveness. "He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring. Nor did our dear Lalaith."

As Gandalf's gentle gaze turned toward her, Lalaith smiled briefly as beside her, Gimli let out a quiet puff of air.

"We've been strangely fortunate." Gandalf's voice carried a lift to it. "Pippin and Lalaith both saw in the palantir a glimpse of the enemy's plan. Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith."

Lalaith blinked wordlessly at these words, remembering the many tiered city of Men she had seen within the thoughts of the great burning eye-, the last bastion of hope against the might of Sauron's evil. Were Sauron's minions to succeed in destroying that high, white city, then they would be free to march across Middle-earth, unchecked, crushing all in their path. Neither the Shire, nor even the Elven realms of her people would be safe, then. A low ragged sigh caught within her throat as Boromir's dearly cherished face flashed into her memory, and then just as swiftly, faded. How he had loved that city.

"His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing," continued Gandalf, casting a meaningful gaze at Aragorn. "He knows the heir of Elendil has come forth. This he saw, also from the palantir. As he saw that the daughter of Manwë lives, a great threat to him still, though she does not yet bear the power her forebearers wield."

Lalaith shivered involuntarily at these words and dropped her eyes. And as she did, she felt Legolas' hands tightening gently where they rested upon her shoulders.

"Men are not as weak as he supposed, not with such allies as the kin of Valar." Gandalf's eyes strayed over her, and she lifted her face to his gaze. A look of gentle, almost sympathetic compassion rested in his eyes.

"There is courage still, strength enough perhaps, to challenge him. Sauron fears this." Gandalf turned his earnest eyes upon Théoden, whose own eyes took on a troubled, thoughtful look at the wizard's unbroken gaze. "He will not risk the peoples of Middle Earth uniting under one banner."

Lalaith's jaw tightened softly as Gandalf's words took on an urgent tone. "He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of Men." She glanced sideward at this, to see Aragorn's eyes fall slightly as his hand rose to rub thoughtfully against the stubble of his jaw. She knew him well enough to sense the thoughts roiling in his heart, more troubled now, perhaps, than she could imagine. Though at her gaze, he turned his eyes slightly, flashing her a brave sliver of a smile.

"If the beacons of Gondor are lit," Gandalf continued in earnest, his eyes remaining unmoving upon Théoden, "Rohan _must_ be ready for war."

"Tell me," Théoden's firm, graveled voice was edged with a hint of bitter question, "why should we ride to the aide of those who did not come to ours?"

Lalaith's eyes shot to the face of Rohan's king.

"What," he added cynically, "do _we_ owe Gondor?"

She knew both from dreams and from what the others had told her, of the bitter battle against Saruman's uruks. Pinned against the wall of the mountain, the Rohirrim, with the help of the Elves who had come timely to their aide, had barely fought them back, long enough for Gandalf, and Lord Éomer to arrive, and thrust the final wedge into the battle. There had been bitter losses, for both Elves and Men.

Gondor had sent no aid, either in ignorance, or from its own dire need. And she could only imagine the sense of abandonment Théoden surely felt. Still, the fate of the war depended upon his willingness to forgive the injury, and Théoden's words shivered darkly through Lalaith. He was only speaking in a moment of bitterness, she hoped. For what she knew of him, he was too good a man to hold such anger close for long. To do so, would canker the noble soul that was his.

In a voice, even and sober, Aragorn spoke, "I will go."

"No," Gandalf returned with a swift glance at the ranger.

"They must be warned!" Aragorn countered.

"They will be." Gandalf assured, him, turning toward him, and striding slowly nearer, until the wizard stood at his shoulder.

"You must come to Minas Tirith by another road." Gandalf murmured, half beneath his breath as he glanced askance, up into Aragorn's thoughtful face. "Follow the river and look to the black ships."

Lalaith pursed her lips thoughtfully at these words. Black ships-, upon the Anduin? Black ships bearing mercenaries of Sauron perhaps? Sailing past Tolfolas, and up the Ethir Anduin to Osgiliath? A cold shiver drove through her heart at this. What did Gandalf know that she did not?

She drew in a soft breath, and pressed back slightly against the firm warmth of Legolas. Wordlessly he responded, tightening his hands upon her shoulders, and tucking his chin against her hair. Where Aragorn went, her love would go, and where Legolas went, she would go. No matter the danger. She would face it at his side.

"Understand this," Gandalf spoke, his voice lifting for all to hear as he turned once again and moved away from Aragorn to face them all, "Things are now in motion that cannot be undone. I ride for Minas Tirith."

He paused, turning meaningful eyes upon Pippin, and murmured, his voice now lowered and thought, "And I won't be going alone."

Lalaith drew in a quick breath at the meaning of his words. She would be losing dear Pippin. After all that she had gone through with him and Merry, they were to be parted.

But when the white wizard paused, and turned meaningfully toward Lalaith, casting a sad reluctant smile toward her, her heart caught upon a beat, and a reluctant shiver trembled through her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Legolas' voice echoed softly through the hall, "Gandalf, no." And his hands drew her closer against him, tightening as if he almost expected the wizard to wrench her bodily away.

"I _am_ sorry, Legolas. I do not like it any more than you do." Gandalf sighed, shaking his head and heaving a heavy sigh, glancing with apologetic eyes at Legolas over the top of Lalaith's head. "But now that Sauron knows she is here, it would be best that she come with me. For everyone's sake."

"But to Minas Tirith, where Sauron means to strike first?" Legolas' voice had grown almost pleading, and slightly broken.

Gandalf's eyes drooped, and he shook his head sympathetically. "I cannot leave her here. I do not doubt that you would defend her with your life, but there is a limit even to your strength. You cannot fight every foe Sauron sends for her." He paused, gazing pointedly at Legolas. "And he _will_ send them. For she is too great a threat for him to ignore. Her presence here may jeopardize Rohan, whose help Gondor desperately needs in this dark hour." At this, Théoden pursed his lips, his eyes growing thoughtful at Gandalf's quick glance to him before the wizard turned back again to the Elves.

"Then I too, will ride to Minas Tirith." Legolas pressed, to which Gandalf sighed, and shook his head wearily.

"Aragorn will have need of both you and Gimli before this tale is played out." Gandalf sighed. "And his path, for now, lies elsewhere."

He leaned upon his staff as if suddenly weary as he studied the sobered faces of the two Elves with empathetic eyes. "What an unpleasant task it is, to tear lovers apart." Gandalf sighed, almost as if to himself. "But it will not be so hard in the bearing, if you trust the will of the Valar. They have not forgotten her, son of Thranduil." Gandalf's gentle smile was directed at Lalaith, though his words spoke to Legolas. "They have not forgotten any soul who struggles for good in this world."

Lalaith's eyes fell at Gandalf's kindly words, and slowly, she drew away from Legolas' hold, his hands falling reluctantly away as she turned to face him, lifting a sad gaze to his, her heart growing weighted as she saw the melancholy shadows within his eyes.

"Did we not agree when this quest began that we would trust the Valar?" She murmured softly, to which his throat softly tightened with bridled emotion.

At her words, his hands reached for hers, gathering them softly into his own. "We did." He breathed.

Beside them, Gimli shifted his weight grunting slightly, but neither Elf noticed, as they gazed long into the eyes of the other. Until after what seemed many minutes, but had only been a few moments, Legolas stepped back, and willingly, but with aching reluctance, let her hands go.

"Well, I-," Lalaith murmured, fighting to keep the quaver from her voice, "I should change my garb into something more suitable for swift travel."

And with one last glance into the somber eyes of her beloved, she turned away and with steps that grew suddenly swift, made her way toward the maidens' chambers so that the men could not see the tears that were quickly filling her eyes.


	17. Chapter 16

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 16**

**June 9, 2004** _Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 16

Lalaith was just pulling on her second boot, when the door of the maiden's chambers creaked open, and Eowyn entered, her eyes flustered, her hands tightly clasped.

"Lord Aragorn told me you are riding to Gondor." She murmured, her eyes somber as she approached the Elf maiden.

Lalaith sighed unhappily as she stood from the cot on which she had been sitting, slung her arms through the sleeves of her jerkin and pulled it taut over her tunic. For within Éowyn's confused tones she heard an echo of her own emotions.

"You're going-, _now_?"

"It is what Gandalf thinks best." Lalaith murmured, snatching her long hair over her shoulder, to braid it back in one long plait. "And I must hurry, for he means to leave immediately."

"Here," Éowyn sighed, grasping a nearby brush from a shelf against the wall, and bidding the Elf maiden to sit upon a cot before her. "I will do that, for you."

Lalaith complied without complaint, and sat before Eowyn who began to draw the brush through her hair with long brisk strokes. The two women were alone in the maidens' chambers, for the other girls were about in the hall, doing their own daily tasks. Their empty cots lined both sides of the room, blankets and coverings folded neatly upon shelves of rough hewn wood against the walls. Aside from their stay in Lothlórien, she had been without the company of other women on this long quest, and Lalaith would miss the maidens here, most especially Éowyn.

Her hands were not so fine, nor her strokes as gentle as Arwen's, but something about the mortal maiden seemed to remind Lalaith of her cousin as she worked, smoothing her hair with the stiff bristles of the brush in her hand, and then plaiting it carefully into a single golden rope. She added no intricate twists or adornments as Arwen might have done, but her work was still flawless as she knotted the end, and stood back.

"There, you are done." She said in a breath of finality, and Lalaith slowly rose to turn to her, seeing in the mortal's eyes a touch of lonely despair.

"Éowyn, what is it?" Lalaith sighed as she caught up her Lórien cloak, and slung it about her shoulders, fastening it with her leaf brooch. At her name, the mortal maiden pursed her lips, wetness suddenly shining in her eyes as she bowed her head, blinking harshly at the tears she was too proud to let fall.

"How I envy you, Lalaith." She choked. "How I wish I could fight for those I love."

"You will." Lalaith murmured, catching her breath on the words, and wondering silently at the wild thrill that shot through her heart at her own words as if she foretold something even she knew not of. She lifted her eyes and smiled at the mortal maiden.

Eowyn said nothing to these words, though her somber mouth twitched in the beginnings of a hopeful smile.

And to this, Lalaith could only lean forward, and embrace the mortal maiden silently, briefly, before a hard, impatient rap, Gandalf's staff no doubt, shook the door, and she drew quickly back.

"We will meet again in Gondor." She said quickly, uncertain why she did, knowing only that it felt right to say.

At this, Eowyn drew in a ragged breath, and a single tear, in spite of her efforts to restrain it, fell from the rim of her eyes, and made a wet trail down her cheek.

"Yes we will." She agreed with a lift of her chin as she swiftly wiped the tear from her face.

The tapping came, harder and more swift now, and Lalaith snatched up her small bundle, the gown Eowyn had gifted her, and turned toward the door.

"It is about time!" Gandalf crowed at her as she snatched the latch and drew it open. Behind him, stood Merry and Pippin, fidgeting, and at his shoulder, stood Théoden, bearing something in his hands, though what he held was half concealed behind Gandalf's long robe. "Bless you, Lalaith, why ever Treebeard could think you and the Hobbits hasty, is beyond me!"

Merry muffled a guffaw beneath his breath at this, but Lalaith only smiled, to which Gandalf could only smile as well.

"But come now, my dear." He added, his voice calming. "Théoden King has a parting gift for you." And at that, with a turn of his shoulder, Gandalf withdrew a space, and the king of Rohan stepped forward, a slim smile beneath his beard, and a kindly look within his eyes that somehow reminded her of Elrond's gentle eyes.

He lifted what he bore and she saw now at last, that it was a quiver. Laden heavily with arrows of Rohan. Her bow also, had been set in a space afforded to it, as did her knives, the hafts resting side by side.

"My lord-," she murmured, dropping her head slightly at his approach.

The quiver was clearly the making of Rohan, and it been used before. The leather sheaf and the strappings were darkened and chafed with age, the metal clasp tarnished, and the tooling rough and uneven compared to what she was used to. Yet it was of durable workmanship. It would serve her well. And from the look within Théoden's eyes it was a thing well cherished.

"This is a most thoughtful gift." She murmured, tentatively reaching for the quiver and taking it as he pressed it into her hands. "Thank you."

"You need not thank me, my lady." Théoden smiled. "It is due more to the concern of your betrothed, Lord Legolas, that you go not to Gondor without your own weapons. This quiver-," his voice caught a moment, but he quickly recovered, and smiled tersely again. "It has no owner, now, and-, I thought to give it to you."

A soft gasp of recognition came from Eowyn behind her, and the realization struck Lalaith suddenly, humbling her with the thought as she murmured, "It was-, your son's my Lord. I-, I do not know what to say."

"Say nothing." Théoden murmured as a ragged sigh caught in his throat, and he smiled again. "Théodred would be proud to know it was borne now by you. You would honor his memory greatly if you wore it."

"My lord, it would be _my_ honor." Lalaith murmured low as she slipped her arm through the belts, and fastened tightly, the tarnished metal clasp. It felt good to have the solid touch of a quiver at her back once again.

Théoden pursed his lips into a taut smile, and in a gesture that was more of a gentle father, than an aloof king, placed a hand upon her shoulder, and smiled. "Go, with all the blessings of Rohan and our people, brave maiden. May you live to see light come again to these lands, and find joy in the peace that you have fought for."

The sun shone with an almost mocking cheeriness as Lalaith strode down the steps from the Golden Hall a step behind Gandalf as Merry and Pippin scampered along behind them, their thick leather feet hitting the ground with soft thumbs though they were not swift enough to match Gandalf's rapid pace.

"Of all the inquisitive Hobbits Peregrin Took, you are the worst!" Gandalf spouted impatiently over his shoulder at the two lagging Hobbits, the palantir, the source of all her woes, safely bundled in his arm as his high white staff thumped the ground rapidly. "Hurry, hurry!"

Lalaith glanced over her shoulder at the two Hobbits, trotting desperately to keep up with the longer legs of the Elves and the Wizard. She lifted her eyes toward the great Hall of Meduseld. Théoden the king stood within the doorway, regal and unmoving, with his niece Eowyn at his side. But Lalaith could not see Legolas anywhere Where had he gone? Her heart felt small and abandoned, for he had been absent since she had emerged from the maidens' chambers, and she had hoped he would see her off.

"Where is Legolas?" She murmured to the wizard at her side.

"Ah, he's around here, somewhere." Gandalf muttered to the maiden beside him his pace unslackened, to which she could think of no reply. For her heart was covered over with too many shadows.

Where was he? Where had Legolas gone? Would he not see her off?

But when the shadows of the stable closed over her, her worried questions faded.

For within the musty air, beneath the swirling dust motes that danced within the beams of sunlight that pierced through to the straw strewn floor stood Legolas, his hand upon the brown mane of a copper coated horse, already fully saddled and bridled, and he was speaking softly to it, as if giving him a whispered admonition. Gimli, stood near, as did Aragorn, their expressions both flitting between confused smiles, and wondering awe. Some distance apart from them, stood Gamling, the king's aide.

At the entrance of the wizard and the Elf maiden, the four men looked up.

"You have come." Legolas said, a heaviness within his voice as he turned toward Lalaith, and came near the reins within his hand. The patient copper horse followed his lead toward the maiden, his hooves clomping softly upon the ground as he came. "But only to leave."

"This is Hasufel, Lalaith!" Gimli grunted, his voice lifting easily within the still air of the stable. "He was with us before, but he went with the Elves after Helm's Deep. But now he's back!"

"He came through the gate but a moment ago, my lady." Gamling added quickly, drawing a step near. "Saddled and bridled as you see him now, and as rested as if he had not come on such a journey as he surely must have."

"He is meant for you, Lalaith," Aragorn added reassuringly. "There are few others who can match Shadowfax step for step from here to Gondor. His coming was guided by the Valar."

"Ah," Gandalf smiled, drawing a long breath. "Now Shadowfax need not bear the three of us, and our flight will be all the more swift. Come Pippin," these last words he spoke to the youngest Hobbit who had come through the stable doors on Merry's heels, looking suddenly unsure and frightened.

Shadowfax stood nearby, and to him, Pippin slowly trotted at Gandalf's hurried gesture. Merry followed slowly, a sad, unsure expression upon his dear little face.

Without preamble, Gandalf snatched the youngest Hobbit beneath his arms, and lifted him to the bare back of the great white horse. Following his lead, Lalaith reluctantly gathered in one hand the warm leather reins Legolas silently offered her. With his hand, warm against her back, she lifted her foot to the stirrup, and hoisted herself lightly to Hasufel's back.

She kept her eyes upon the tooled saddle horn in front of her. For she hardly dared to glance down into the eyes of her beloved, fearful of her own mounting weakness. His hand, still upon her own that rested upon her knee was warm and soft, in spite of the slight calluses it bore. She turned her hand, silently weaving her fingers through his own. She had always loved his hands. So gentle they had always been, for as long as her memory could reach. Their touch grown only more dear as her feelings for him had blossomed from friendship to love. His hand tightened within hers, but she dared not look. If she did, she would weep.

"How far is Minas Tirith?" Pippin asked, his voice small and unsure. She turned slightly at his voice, wishing she could offer him comfort, to see him out of the corner of her eye, perched alone and forlorn upon the silver back of Shadowfax.

"Three days ride as the Nazgûl flies." Gandalf blustered, brushing Shadowfax's mane with a gentle manner that belied his brusque, impatient demeanor. "And you'd better hope we don't have one of those on our tail." The wizard stepped back as Merry drew a step near, holding out a small leather packet to Pippin. The last of their beloved pipeweed, Lalaith realized with a broken sigh as the two Hobbits began their mournful farewells.

"Lalaith-," Legolas soft voice lifted above the Hobbits' and her eyes fell at last to his. She sighed brokenly at the melancholy shadows upon his eyes as he lifted her hand within both his own, running his thumb softly across her knuckles. Suddenly she was as weak as a child. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave him.

"Legolas-," she breathed in the tones of their own speech, as she leaned over him, finding the firm warmth of his jaw beneath her hand, "how can I go? How can I leave you again?" She was ashamed for her sudden weakness, but neither Legolas' eyes, nor those of Aragorn or Gimli who stood behind him, or even those of Gamling who stood a space away, his gaze turned somberly downward, held any hint of reproof.

"You are strong." Legolas sighed, his brows twitching as he lifted his free hand, and cupped her cheek. "You will find the strength to endure until we meet again in Minas Tirith, _Lalaith nin_."

"I will watch for your coming." She returned, her eyes finding his.

"And I will come as swiftly as I can." Legolas assured her, his eyes delving softly into her own.

"I know." She murmured in a quiet breath. "I love you."

"And I love you." He returned, his jaw tightening with repressed emotion. "No matter what may come, remember that. And-, remember this-,"

Sweet and lingering was the kiss he pressed against her mouth. Neither cared that others were near. Her hand slid from his jaw into the smooth, golden strands of his hair as Legolas' fingertips ran softly over the lines of her cheeks and lips, eager to absorb every detail of her. If only this moment could never end-,

"Run Shadowfax." Gandalf bid, his words parting them, and they drew abruptly apart. "Show us the meaning of haste."

With silent, plaintive eyes Legolas stepped back from her, Aragorn's comforting hand coming to rest upon his shoulder as Gimli harumphed, and leaned thoughtfully over his axe. Legolas touched his hand to his heart, where the necklace Galadriel had give him, rested. And she touched her own hand to her jerkin, beneath where, the medallion she saved for him, lay warm against her skin.

"Merry!" She heard Pippin cry as Shadowfax leapt from his pen, and pounded through the stable, past Gimli and the Men, and between her and Legolas. And without her bidding him, Hasufel leapt, like an arrow from the string, and through the stable doors, his hoof beats pounding swiftly beneath him as he followed the great silver horse.

Legolas was gone in an instant. The stable fell behind them, and the path turned to plunge down the hill. Her face whirled forward, tears drying before they touched her lashes, and she bent low over the saddle horn, giving Hasufel his head. Naught but a step behind Shadowfax he flew, both horses scattering dust beneath their flying hooves, as the sharply slanting roofs of Edoras flashed by. The wind, cool with the scent of morning dew still upon it, whipped past her face.

Moments later, the high gate appeared, and the path leveled. Its shadow flashed over their heads, and was gone as swiftly as it appeared, falling rapidly behind them as the horses turned their heads to the east, strides drawing out long, into a smooth, full gallop.

As if upon eagles' wings the two horses flew over the ground, their hooves barely skimming across the earth. Down a low rise they plunged, and splashed noisily through a shallow stream scattering drops like so many brief diamonds upon the air, before they leapt out, and burst up a low rise.

Here, Lalaith turned back, glimpsing the high mount of Edoras as it fell swiftly behind them, its picket wall falling swiftly below the hill.

Upon the highest turret of the wall, two dear faces watched the fleeing horses. Merry, peering out at them through a low gap in the balustrade, and Aragorn beside him, his rugged face somber and thoughtful. But to them, her gaze was not drawn, so much as it was to the figure who stood high above them, upon the terrace of the Golden Hall, the morning wind catching gently at his golden hair. His chest was heaving slightly from his hard sprint up the hill that he might watch her as long as he could from this vantage. Pensive was his gaze, and pleading as he watched her flight.

_Our hearts will never be far apart_-, the thought echoed in her mind, as a solemn promise spoken to her soul from his.

Her soul was a part of his, Lalaith knew, her heart swelling anew at the thought. Formed for each other in the deeps of time, their souls were fashioned, each for the other. Long before either of them had been born, their fates were entwined. And surely the Valar would not create souls with such a bond, if the ending of their struggles would be in vain, if all their longings came to naught?

It could not be so. For Ilúvatar was too good. The Valar were too merciful. And to such thoughts she clung, desperately, hungrily as the rise fell behind them, obscuring at last, even the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and Legolas' beloved visage disappeared from her view.


	18. Chapter 17

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 17**

**June 17, 2004** _Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 17

The air beneath the shading canopy of trees was cool, as was the soft breeze that caught at his hair and cloak. Gentle forest sounds echoed about him as Elrohir sat somberly upon his mount, the reins held loose in his hands. They were familiar and comforting to him, and at any other time, they would have eased his heart.

But this time there would be no ease. His heart was too troubled to be comforted by such cheerful things. Glancing over his shoulder at his sister, cloaked and hooded, sober faced upon her own mount, his heart gave another painful thud. He should be glad she was going across the sea, he reminded himself. She would be with mother again, her beauty would never diminish. He would not lose her to-, he ached to think of the word _death_.

Yet a shadow of misgiving hung low over his heart, and he could not help but think that this was a choice she would forever regret. Though in all his life Elrohir had never known such love himself, he could not but sense the deep bond that rested between his sister and Aragorn. Theirs was a thing apart, no less hallowed by the Valar than the bond between Lalaith and Legolas, though Aragorn was a mortal. Even the eternal bliss of Valinor could not replace her love for the heir of Elendil.

As if sensing his gaze upon her, Arwen looked up. Their eyes met briefly, and he could see the turmoil within her soul. How he wished he could wheel his horse about, and go to her side, gathering her into his arms like a child. But her eyes swiftly darted away again, as if she followed something seen only by her, off into the trees, and Elrohir sighed, turning his face again forward. His brother rode a space ahead of him, and Lord Glorfindel, on foot, walked at the head of the quiet column of Elves. The three of them would be the only ones of the company to return to Imladris.

The light of the Elves was slowly waning from Middle Earth, and one day, though he wished not to think of it now, he would sail, too, beyond the sight of this land that had cradled him from birth, to the untold glories of Valinor. Yet, for now, he was not ready to leave. His heart still lingered in these lands, as did his brother's and Lord Glorfindel's. Though, he admitted to himself, their hearts were not bent towards the beauty of the land alone.

For a moment, he allowed a small smirk to touch his face. For there was a certain auburn haired maiden yet in Imladris, not yet ready to sever her bonds with these shores, who, Elrohir did not doubt, occupied the greater part of Elladan's thoughts, and was his chief reason to stay. Miriel was her name, the daughter of Arphen, one of Elrond's skilled smiths. A slight, doe eyed maiden she was, a few decades older than Lalaith, that his elder twin had been seeing much of for many month's time now. Their friendship had been blossoming since she had been a youthful maiden of naught but one hundred years, and only now was the pair beginning to understand their true feelings for each other.

Elrohir glanced down at the reins that hung loosely within his hands, pursing his lips in solemn thought. Such a thing had long been expected.

But for Glorfindel, who for centuries, millennia even, from Gondolin to Mandos and back again had shown no sign that he would ever be so audacious as to give his heart to any woman, his courtship of the fair Ithilwen was a thing unlooked for.

The golden haired maiden had come from the realm of Mirkwood with the children of Elrond and their retinue scarcely more than a year before to dwell for a time with kin in Imladris. And from the first time the fair Ithilwen came to their sheltered vale, Glorfindel had become entranced by her gracious manner, and fair beauty. The maiden herself, youthful for an Elf, and near Arwen in age had been in awe of the great lord of whom many tales were told. At first, she had been shy of his attentions. But Glorfindel's patience and unfeigned kindness were at last slowly winning her heart over to him. And Elrohir was happy for them both. For what was age, when Elves were considered? Aside from the deep light of wisdom that ever rested within his eyes, Glorfindel appeared to be of no greater age than Elrohir himself.

He was a youth again when he was near Ithilwen, ever shining eyed, ever eager to please, to do anything to make her happy. Even now, as he walked at the head of the solemn line of Elves, Glorfindel seemed lost in a world of his own making, and Elrohir could only imagine the look of stupefied delight that seemed never to leave the older Elven Lord's features. His thoughts were bent upon the completion of his task, only so that he could return to Imladris and to her. And soon, Elrohir did not doubt, when this darkness was past, and the world was made lighter, there would be much joy in their sheltered vale, for the bonding of his dear cousin Lalaith to Prince Legolas would not be the only wedding to anticipate.

He sighed and his smile faded at thoughts of Lalaith. Where was she now? Was she safe? What was she doing at this moment? Brave, foolish girl to go scampering off with Estel and Mithrandir, simply because Legolas was going with them. He clenched his jaw, stifling the thought, and admitting to himself that she had her own will. And her friends would watch after her. If one could not, another would. For she was dear to them all. She would return home well and whole, he promised himself, if but sadly disappointed that Arwen would be gone. And at thoughts of his sister, Elrohir's heart darkened again.

"Elrohir!" A cry interrupted his scattered thoughts, and he came again to himself to hear above the cry, the departing pounding of a horse's hooves. Swiveling quickly, he turned to gaze down into the troubled eyes of Lindir, one of his father's stewards, who pointed back in the direction from whence they had come. "Your sister, the lady Arwen!"

His eyes jerked up, in time to see the flutter of her cloak, and the flash of her horse's tail as it disappeared beyond a bend in the trail. A swell of pride mixed with ragged pain cast itself over his heart at the realization of what she had just done.

"Elladan!" he cried, spurring his horse nearer to his brother who had turned his head at the commotion in time to see the flash of light as his sister disappeared beyond the trees. The brothers' eyes met, Elladan's own face reflecting the emotions that roiled inside Elrohir's heart.

Turning forward, Elladan called in a louder voice, "My lord, Glorfindel! I must turn back. Arwen cannot go unescorted."

"Indeed," Glorfindel agreed, as the column drew to a halt, and cast a quiet gaze at the trail behind them. "And perhaps another should ride with you as well."

"My lord, take my horse." Elrohir spouted, leaping swiftly down from his mount, and holding the reins out to the golden haired Elf lord. "I will guide the others to the Havens."

"Me?" Glorfindel queried, an amused expression playing across his face. "She is _your_ sister."

"But I have no one waiting for me." He countered swiftly. "And Lady Ithilwen-,"

Glorfindel smirked like a child at the sound of her name, though he shook his head. "Your thought is a noble one," he murmured, his expression fading to a patient smile, "but I do not mind. Ithilwen will be waiting when I return. Go, my young lord, for your sister will have need of you."

"Come, Elrohir." Elladan urged, wheeling the head of his mount about, and trotting quickly back the way they had come, his head turned back as he waited for his younger twin. And so with a shrug of his shoulders, and uttering a sigh of acceptance, Elrohir leapt smoothly again to the back of his horse, wheeling his head about and nudging his heels gently into his mount's side. Swiftly catching Elladan, the two brothers broke into a gallop, leaving the column swiftly behind them as they followed after their sister.

"Come, my friends." Glorfindel called, once the hoof beats of the brothers' mounts had faded. "Let us continue our journey." He turned his face forward again, away from trail at their backs, his pace unhurried, and subdued.

Slowly, his smile faded, as his countenance turned away from the others, and he faced his thoughts alone, finding himself fighting a surge of crippling despair that he had thought long ago defeated. His thoughts were no longer on the sweet graces of his dearest Ithilwen, but on another maiden. A gentle young face, fair, and golden haired, though now lost eternally to him.

He had thought her dead at first from the news Tuor's lady had given him, and in his despair, he had cast all caution aside and faced the balrog fearlessly, thinking it no sacrifice to die in his grief, that others with more meaning to live than he, might have that chance. Yet he had found no comfort in death, for she was not in the Halls of Mandos as he had thought. And knowing the fate that had claimed her, he had only found himself sinking deeper into his grief amid the swiftly passing centuries. Surely it could only have been pity that moved Lord Namo to extend to him the rare mercy of his life renewed, though the true reason, Glorfindel did not think he would ever know.

"But my lord?" Lindir's voice broke Glorfindel from his despairing thoughts, and he turned to smile into the pensive eyes of the young dark haired Elf who hurried to his shoulder. "What are we to do for Lady Arwen?"

At this, Glorfindel offered him a comforting smile, and clapped a hand upon his shoulder. "Come, my friend Lindir. We need not worry for her. Her brothers will not fail their sister. Your duty now, and mine, are to see our kindred to Mithlond, ere we return to Imladris, and our own dear ones."

Lindir nodded reluctantly, and said nothing as the column continued its unhurried way along the cool forest path. Slowly he fell a step behind Glorfindel, leaving the older Elven lord to his own thoughts, and to a name, spoken silently upon his lips like a prayer, and cast upon the soft wind that lifted it up, and carried it away into the sky.


	19. Chapter 18

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 18**

**June 24, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 18

The little blanket was empty once again, folded carefully and stuffed back beneath her ragged tunic as Burza lopped wearily along the foot of the mountains, thumping through tall dew wet grasses, and small springing flowers that were just beginning to lift their heads out of the earth now that it was loosing itself from the cold grip of winter. Her berries were gone. They had been since the night before. Her stomach was beginning to grumble again with hunger, and she was growing thirsty as well. The cool shadows of Treebeard's forest she had left long behind her, and she trotted beneath the high, cloudless sky. The sun, she could see, was coming in the east, warming the sky, and lightening the snowy tips of the mountains to the west with a pink, rosy light.

She sniffed to herself as the golden light slowly rose in the sky, soon to peek over the friendly trees east of her. She would need to stop soon, find a sheltering cave perhaps in the nearby foothills, and sleep as she waited for the harsh, scalding light of the sun to pass beyond the western mountains before she could crawl out again. Or perhaps-, the thought brought a warm thrill to her heart, she could make her way into the shadows of this forest, and find her rest beneath those fair golden trees.

Her heart sang at the thought, for her very soul seemed drawn to those trees. How fair they were, and undefiled, beckoning to her almost, they seemed, inviting her to come and rest beneath their boughs, to sleep her weariness away in their gentle shade. And-, her heart sighed at the thought that washed her heart as if with gentle sunlight, how-, forgiving they seemed.

And she hurried on towards them, quickening her pace all the more as a cold, clear melodious clatter of running water came dancing upon the wind toward her. Until to her great delight, a cold stream of water appeared beyond a low rill, slipping merrily down from the hills above her and moving swiftly on down the slope of the mountain, and joining in the distance, another river that shone silver in the rising dawn before flowing on into the fair, golden forest.

Quickly scampering down the bank, she stopped for a moment on the edge of the bright clear stream, before she stepped carefully into it, and let the water wash gently over her tired feet. Soothing and cleansing it was, as if it were washing away not only the dust of her travel, but also the darkest pain of her heart. Not caring that it soaked her, she dropped to her knees and dipped her hands down into the clear water. She scooped it up, gulping it down greedily, and snatched up more. It was cold, and clean, and deeply refreshing, Burza sighed, sitting back upon her heels for a moment, and letting her fingers trawl over its laughing, dancing surface. If only she could stay here, her heart wished, and splash about all day, like a child. But the sun was coming, and she needed shelter. So with a sigh of reluctance, she clambered to her feet. She splashed out again, moist earth squeezing between her bare toes as she clambered up the bank, cool waving grass, and new young flowers once again beneath her feet. Lifting a hand that seemed softer and oddly pink in the light of the rising morning, she brushed the water from her face, and started in a trot toward the golden trees that grew all the more inviting and kind as she drew closer. Their boughs fluttered softly in a gentle morning wind, their voices stirring softly as if they sang to her in welcome.

...

The distant mountains were touched with a brush of pink, but the morning light had not yet touched their golden trees, and in the soft shadows of the early morning twilight, Haldir seemed almost one with the branch upon where he was perched, gazing through the trees and toward the western hills as if lost in his own deep thoughts.

Lothirien smiled at his firm, broad back, his straight strong shoulders as she stepped silently nearer. His warm smooth skin even now, bore a soft glow to it and she mused again over how blessed she was to have him once more. To have the comfort of his strong arms about her, his love filling her days and nights that had once been so empty and purposeless. To see in all he did, his love for her as well as for their unborn son, ever growing beneath the beating of her heart, healed now of all its pain. The Valar were indeed gracious and good.

He was not expecting her here. And her smile grew all the more broad as she crept nearer, anticipating the look of surprised delight on his face. She paused behind him, only a breath away, and slowly, achingly, reached out toward him.

"I must commend you, my love. You almost caught me off guard." She could hear the smile in his voice, and as he turned toward her, she caught a glimpse of his haughty smirk before he caught her up in his arms and captured her mouth in a deep kiss, drowning out her groan of protest.

"How did you find me out?" She sighed, drawing back from him, and smiling indulgently at his new habit of trailing his hands across her narrow stomach, though it was not yet showing any outward sign of their son's slowly swelling life.

"It was no fault of yours that I knew of your coming." He assured her gently, once again drawing her close into the shelter of his arms. "Unless I can fault the sweet aroma of the food you left below you upon the talan."

"_Ai_," she sighed, and her face fell. "That was to have been my second surprise."

"It is a surprise." He assured her warmly, catching a branch above his head to step deftly around her. Taking her hand within his, he led her back with him and downward off the wide branch and onto the flat surface of the talan where she had left the food basket she had brought, resting upon a wide square of silver cloth she had already spread out. "I had not expected you. For I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that you were tamed at last, and would wait at home like-,"

For a moment, his eyes flickered, unsure of what he should say next, and Lothirien pounced wickedly upon it. "Like a good little wife should?" She demanded saucily.

Haldir cleared his throat at this, and Lothirien grinned. "No!" He protested. "Like I would think you might in-, your-, condition."

"My _condition_?" Lothirien grinned mercilessly, enjoying his discomfited expression immensely. "Are you suggesting, my lord, that I am an _invalid_?"

"_Ai_, my lady, I am defeated!" Haldir groaned, circling an arm about her waist. "Will you not show me mercy?"

"Never." She sighed.

"Ah, good." He grinned, lifting his chin and cocking an eyebrow mischievously. "Then you remained untamed. Just as I prefer you to be."

She smirked at these last words.

"But-, where are the others?" He asked, drawing slightly back, and glancing about them questioningly.

"I bribed the other guards with food," she quipped, "and then I sent them away."

"Indeed?" He murmured, a roguish smile sliding across his face as he turned back to her.

Offering him an impish grin, she nodded, "_Far_ away."

"Now that is indeed, a _very_ pleasant surprise." He murmured, pulling her against him once again and bending his head over her own.

"Ah, but what's that?" She gasped suddenly before their lips could meet, and pulled back swiftly, tilting her head as if straining to hear an unheard sound.

Haldir paused at her expression, listening as well, and then he heard it, a soft sound down below, as if someone was picking his slow way through the undergrowth below their talan.

"Rumil and Orophin." Lothirien grumbled, slapping her hands against her skirt in exasperation as her husband, with furrowed brow, crept to the edge of the talan, and glanced over the edge. "They are coming to tease us, the scoundrels. That is the last time I give _them_ any berry tarts."

"No, Lothirien. It isn't them." Haldir hissed in a low voice, the tone of which drew a somber silence over her, especially when she saw the expression on his face as he silently gestured her to his side, and pointed, with bated breath at the figure that was coming along the path below them, toward the very tree they were perched within.

Lothirien said nothing as her eyes fell upon the figure below them. But she felt her breath grow still in her throat, and she lifted a hand, softly covering her mouth.


	20. Chapter 19

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 19**

**July 12, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 19

Burza smiled, tipping her head back, and gazing up into the high branches of the tall golden trees, flocked with vibrant golden leaves as they waved and fluttered like the welcoming hands of friends beckoning her home. What a fair place was this! She could stay here, many days if she wished, resting, and eating berries, if perhaps, she could find some-,

A soft rustle of leaves caused her to spin, suddenly frightened, hugging her arms tightly to herself. But she saw nothing on the path behind her.

"You need not fear that your captors will follow you, young one. For you are under the protection of the Lady of the Wood now."

The voice startled her, and Burza uttered a garbled cry of fear as she spun forward to face the unexpected image of the Elf man, standing on the trail before her. Tall he was and golden haired, clad in a grey cloak, a tunic and breeches of muted colors, and soft leather boots. His eyes were fixed upon her with questions, and what seemed a soft, sorrowful look as well which Burza could not interpret. His voice contained none of the harsh, painful tones of the Black Speech, nor the solid, somber tones of the Common Speech, but yet she understood much of what he said. He took a step nearer, his eyes growing ever softer as he unbound his cloak from his shoulders and held it out to her, a gesture which she did not understand, and only stumbled back again, a pace.

"What is your name, young one?" He queried gently. "Where is your home?"

At this, she cried out again, and scrambled backward, falling to the ground as she did. She could see now, the sheathed knife strapped at his waist. He was going to kill her. Drawing in a ragged breath, she released it in a timid whimper, and scurried upon her hands and knees toward the nearest tree, huddling herself into the tall curve of its roots. Sniffling, she buried her head against her knees, hugging the small folded blanket close against her skin, her one comfort.

"Do not be afraid," the man called after her his voice even softer than before as he took a step closer to her. "You need not fear me. I wish to help you."

"Oh, the poor little one." Another voice, a feminine voice caused Burza to shiver, gulping hard at the fair Elf woman who came near to stand at the man's arm, watching her with the same soft expression as his face bore. "How terrified she is."

"And none can fault her for it." The man muttered, shaking his head, a thick bitterness laced his voice. "Look at her garb. I dare not think of the abominations she has suffered-, cursed, vile orcs-,"

At this, Burza began to sob, loud wrenching sobs, for she had understood well his last words. She _was_ cursed and vile, they had said so. And now they would kill her.

"Oh, my dear one!" The lady exclaimed, catching his loose cloak from him as she stepped past the man. Drawing nearer to Burza's narrow hiding place, she crouched down so that her eyes could look levelly into Burza's. "The darkness is past. And the pain will never return."

Burza shook her head through her fearful tears.

The woman sighed softly, and glanced up at the man as if for help.

"Those creatures will never touch you again, fair maiden." The man added gently as he came to stand behind the woman. "You need fear nothing any more."

Burza sniffed, and blinked at him as he said these words. And in the same moment, a spear of bright, golden morning sunlight broke through a space in the branches above her head, washing the ground before her hiding place in a warm beam, bathing the two Elves beneath it.

"Come." The woman beckoned, smiling again, and offering her a welcoming hand. "Come back into the light."

Gulping hard, Burza lifted a hand, which seemed no longer twisted and gnarled, but soft and smooth as the woman's as she caught her hand and drew Burza slowly, gently from beneath the bowed tree roots. The woman stood, helping Burza up with her, and with gentle pressure, pulled her slowly beneath the warm beam. Slowly, Burza's hand was drawn beneath the light that shone warm and smooth upon her skin, warming as it crept up her arm, to her shoulder, and at last, enveloped her, washing her face in the light that streamed like a gentle shower through the fluttering leaves.

"Now, my dear one." The woman sighed and circled the grey cloak, warm and soft about Burza's narrow shoulders as the man smiled kindly upon her. "Was that so very difficult?"

But Burza did not answer, for she was too captivated by her own hands, shining and white beneath the clear sunlight that fell down upon her like a gentle rain. She turned them over before her face, unable to understand what she was seeing. They were fair and smooth, no longer twisted and charred as they had once been. Burza lifted her hands to her face, touching the smooth unblemished skin, and her hair-, she touched her fingers to it, long and thick now as it tumbled in rich golden waves about her shoulders.

"Haldir," the woman murmured anxiously at Burza's dumbfounded expression, "go quickly and bring the food basket. She must be delirious from hunger."

He complied immediately, and soft, swift footfalls marked his exit.

"Now then, dear one," the woman soothed, catching Burza's hand within her own, and touching a cool hand to Burza's cheek. "Will you tell me your name? And where is your home? Your family is sick with grief, surely, thinking you lost."

Burza blinked numbly at the woman's questions, as she pulled the edges of the cloak about her. What were the answers? She could not remember. Her mind was a swirl of forgotten memories, and half remembered dreams.

She gulped hard, hugging the warm cloak all the more tightly about her shoulders as the woman smiled softly and nodded her encouragement. Burza shivered warmly at the image that came to her mind. His eyes, his smile, his face she would never forget.

She sighed at last and murmured one soft word, "-_Glorfindel_."


	21. Chapter 20

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 20**

**July 23, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 20

"My lord?"

The voice spoken in the quiet evening shadows, made Elrohir lift his head wearily from where it had been resting dejectedly within his hands as he sat upon a stone bench on the edge of a high veranda. Below the balustrade, he could see the glow of the forge through the trees, and hear the faint rhythmic ring of hammer against metal. The sound brought a little hope to his heart, though but a very little.

"My lady." He returned, struggling to smile up at the lady Ithilwen who smiled down upon him, though her smile was sad as well.

"I thought you would like some refreshment." The maiden continued, nodding at the tray within her hands, bearing a glass of fresh wine, and a small plate of fruit. "You've eaten little since your return."

"Thank you." He smiled gratefully as the maiden set the tray upon a small table beside him, and for her sake, he lifted the glass and took a small sip. "You were thoughtful to bring this to me. Lord Glorfindel is fortunate indeed, to have won your favors."

Ithilwen smiled shyly and blushed at the name as she took the empty place beside him. "He was well when you left him?"

"He was." Elrohir smiled, somewhat cheered at the light of love he could see within the maiden's eyes. "It would have done your heart good to see his eyes when I suggested he return in my place, so that he could be with you again."

"It does my heart well enough to hear of it." She responded good-naturedly. "And it is his way to think of his duty first. The good of others has always come before his own pleasure."

"Indeed it has." Elrohir agreed, taking another sip.

"He is so good and wise. Sometimes I wonder what it is he sees in me, and I wonder if I am _truly_ worthy of him." Ithilwen sighed, the sound soft and plaintive. "He has seen so much. So deep are his eyes and filled with such wisdom-," she managed a trembling smile. "Sometimes I sense in him, a strange sadness. Something I cannot touch, or heal-, I wish I could."

"_Ai_, my lady." Elrohir cut in gently. "His heart is deep. And he carries many memories there, of both misery and also of happiness." He smiled at the maiden reassuringly, and she returned it. "He loves you, my lady. And I can see in your eyes, that you love him." Ithilwen flushed at this, and bent her head, though he could see she was pleased by his words. "What you cannot mend, you make endurable for him. And that is enough to bring him some measure of healing." A shadow crossed his mind, and his eyes fell as he spoke his next words. "Though what can be done for Arwen, I cannot say."

At the name, Ithilwen's smile faded to a look of sorrow and she sighed, for she understood the meaning of his words. And for a long moment, the two Elves sat beneath the silence as the faint ringing of the smithy's hammer continued to echo below them.

"She will not sail, for her love of one of the Edain." Elrohir murmured softly, more to himself than to her. "And now she is fading. And as the darkness spreads-, she cannot last long against it, unless it is defeated."

He felt a hand, soft upon his shoulder, and he looked up into her eyes, warm with compassion and sympathy.

"It _will_ be defeated, my lord." Ithilwen assured him gently. "It will be. Lady Arwen will be well again, and Lady Lalaith will return safe and whole, if only wiser for her journeys."

He smiled sadly at her words. "You are very kind, Lady Ithilwen." He murmured with a sigh. "Your thoughts, like your lord's, always turned upon others." He smiled sadly, and placed his hand over hers where it rested upon his arm. "Never wonder if you are worthy of him, my lady. For you are."

"Elrohir?" His brother's voice, taut, almost frantic, came at him through the somber night's silence, shattering his moment of restless peace.

"Elladan." He gasped, shooting to his feet as his elder twin came into view from around the corner of the veranda. Beside Elrohir, Ithilwen rose as well, though more slowly, waiting with bated breath, her face showing that she feared as he did, that Elladan brought ill news.

"What is it?" Elrohir demanded. "Is it Arwen?" His blood stilled at the thought, and he dared not speak further.

Elladan shook his head. "She is as weak as before. Miriel sits with her, and I will return to her side soon as well. But father wishes to see you. Now. He has news from Lórien. From Grandmother."

Elrohir's heart roiled at his brothers words. _News from Lórien? Good or ill?_ Turning quickly, he offered Ithilwen a nod of apology. "By your leave, my lady-,"

"Of course." Ithilwen quickly nodded her farewell, and with that, he turned and rushed after his brother.

...

"You wish me to make a journey across the mountains to Lothlórien?" Elrohir demanded softly, wondering if he had heard his father's words correctly. His question echoed softly in his father's study, amid the warm, familiar scent of parchment and aged tomes. "Now? But I dare not leave Arwen. Not now, when she is so near to-,"

Beneath the flickering light of lamps, Elrond's back stiffened, and Elrohir let his words die, for he could sense his father's deep pain. He clenched his jaw, forcing his own fear for his younger sister away into a distant corner of his heart.

"Had Lord Glorfindel returned in your stead, I would have sent him." Elrond muttered in a low voice. "And I must have your brother stay here, to watch over-," his voice choked slightly, "your sister. As for me, I must now take my own urgent journey-,"

"What is the purpose for which I am needed?" Elrohir asked softly, his tone subdued, and Elrond, his eyes swollen with unshed tears turned slowly to face him, his eyes searching Elrohir's silently.

Elrond sighed, his eyes lowering as he stepped nearer to his younger son, and he drew in a slow breath. "A young maiden, a stranger to the Golden Wood, was found wandering at the western edge of the wood. Near to where the Nimrodel joins the Celebrant."

Elrohir shifted his weight at this, and folded his arms. A sense of heavy foreboding cast itself across his heart, but he said nothing.

A twist of pain made its way across Elrond's face. "She was clad in naught but the ragged garments of an orc-,"

"A captive, escaped from them?" Elrohir choked, his mind flashing, without his willing it, back many centuries to his own mother's rescue. The black cave, orcs at every turn, and his mother, his dear, beautiful mother, bruised and bloodied upon the floor-, His father, he could see in Elrond's face, was remembering the same living nightmare as well. What hideous torments had the poor maiden endured, before she managed to make her way free?

"And held long by them, I fear." Elrond nodded, his jaw tightening. "For she seemed frightened of the Galadhrim at first, as if she thought they meant her harm. She cannot remember even her own name, nor from where her kin hail." Elrond swallowed softly and murmured, "But she remembers the name _Glorfindel_. It is the only word she speaks."

Elrohir nodded slowly, "And you wish for me to go in his stead?"

Elrond nodded, his brow knotting as a look of distant pain came into his eyes. "Though it is not you she calls for, your grandmother believes you can draw this maiden from the last remnants of darkness that cling to her soul. That perhaps through your help, and-, with the passing of the darkness, this poor child might fully recover."

Elrohir swallowed hard at this. Galadriel, wiser than any other being he knew, thought he could do this. And if it was he who, in Glorfindel's absence, could help this poor nameless maiden, he would do it.

"Then I will go, Father. As you wish me to." He murmured softly, and bowed his head, before he turned to make his way out the door.

"Elrohir-,"

"Yes, Father?" Elrohir asked, turning back.

"May your journey fare well, my son." A thin thread of a smile touched Elrond's face as he stepped forward and drew his youngest son to him in a swift embrace.

"And yours, Father." Elrohir murmured, tightening his jaw as Elrond stepped back, observing his son soberly before Elrohir bowed his leave, and turned, striding quickly from the room.


	22. Chapter 21

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 21**

**August 3, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 21

Lalaith shifted her weight within the saddle, and rolled her shoulders back, shaking her head at the weariness that threatened to numb her mind. The world for so long had been a whir, the trees of the wood they were galloping through, little more than blurred images in the faint light.

To her right, the mountains, jagged peaked and snow capped between swift glimpse through the trees, rolled slowly by, less of a blur than the ground beneath Hasufel's hooves, and those of Shadowfax beside him. Gandalf upon his silver back seemed unwearied, and she sighed.

Pippin who had been sleeping in snatches for the past day and night was half dozing against Gandalf's arm, and she couldn't help but envy him. She had slept not at all, and even blessed with her Elven stamina, she was still growing stiff and light headed, from so long in the saddle. Though, she reminded herself, this was not nearly so arduous a trial as their forced trek across the plains of Rohan, when she and the Hobbits had been the captives of Saruman's uruks. She was not running now, nor was she wounded. And she was grateful enough for that.

The trees broke for a moment, and the land sloped downward suddenly, a gentle rill to a shallow river, through which the horses clattered, casting up the water in foaming, sparking droplets, soaking the bellies of the horses, and splashing scattered drops up upon their clothes, and into their faces.

Pippin woke at this with a start and a small squawk, much like the cry of a startled goose. She glanced into Gandalf's face at this, to see a spark of merriment light his eyes as they traded a glance.

"That was the Mering Stream, Lalaith!" Gandalf called out as the horses surged up the eastern bank. "Do you know where we are now?"

"We are passing through the Firien Wood. We have left the Eastfold of Rohan. And we are in the land of Anórien?" She cried back.

"Indeed!" He laughed aloud, his voice ringing with cheery merriment through the wind that whipped around them. "You've remembered your studies well, my dear! I shall have to remember to tell Elrond!"

She smiled at his humored tone, her heart lightening at the moment of cheer it brought.

"Where's that?" Pippin chirped out. "Where are we Gandalf?"

"We've just passed into the realm of Gondor." The wizard cried into the swift wind, in answer.

Gondor. And Minas Tirith their goal, was drawing closer. As was the harsh red glow beyond the far distant peaks, black and barren, the Ephel Dúath. It had been a low haze on the horizon when they had set out from Edoras. But now it was larger, a long ridge of black, beyond where she could see the constant angry glow of Orodruin glimmering off the heavy bellies of the angry black clouds that boiled eternally above that barren land. Somewhere in that vast, lifeless expanse, was Frodo. And Sam, with him. Somewhere. Alive, she prayed softly in her thoughts, and every moment taking them nearer to the fiery mountain. She had no choice but to believe it, that they were alive, and that the One Ring was still in Frodo's possession. For she dared not believe anything else. Upon them, all the hopes of all the free people of Middle Earth precariously hung.

"_Tall ships and tall kings  
>Three times three,<br>What brought them from the foundered land  
>Over the flowing sea?<br>Seven stars and seven stones  
>And one white tree<em>."

Turning her head, she glanced at Gandalf, singing now, his words coming clear to her ears through the rushing wind.

"What are you singing about Gandalf?" Pippin asked.

"I was just running over some of the Rhymes of Lore out loud." Answered the wizard into the wind. "Hobbits, perhaps, have forgotten them."

"No, not at all." Pippin quipped. "But I've never heard that one. What is it about, the seven stars and seven stones?"

"About the _palantiri_, the seeing stones." Lalaith cried in answer. "The stone you looked into was one of them. There were seven in the ancient days. Kept by the kings of old."

"So they were not-," Pippin struggled to glance over at her, jostling slightly from Shadowfax's leaping strides. "They were not evil to begin with?"

At this, Gandalf laughed aloud. "Ah, no. The Noldor made them. But there is nothing that Sauron cannot twist to his evil purposes. Long ago, they were kept at Minas Anor, and Minas Ithil, the one kept at Orthanc it appears, has withstood the storms of time, hidden long from the rest of us, by Saruman, to his own downfall. Another one was kept under the Dome of Stars at Osgiliath. The other three were far away in the North."

"Annúminas, and Amon Sûl, and Elendil's stone was on the Tower Hills that look toward Mithlond." Lalaith returned, to which Pippin glanced over at her, and lifted a brow, impressed. "So it is taught in my uncle's house." She finished with smile.

"Who knows now, where the lost stones of Arnor and Gondor now lie? But one other at least, Sauron captured." Gandalf added into the wind. "The Ithil-stone, I think. For he took Minas Ithil long ago, and turned it evil. Minas Morgul it has become.

"That," Gandalf continued, his voice growing hard in the wind that whipped ever about them, "is doubtless how Sauron tutored Saruman from afar, twisting him easily to his purposes, for Saruman already longed for more power than was his due, and was an easy victim for the Dark Lord to ensnare. Saruman's fate, I fear, was sealed by his own selfishness. For even a wizard is not immune to the pull of evil. Even now, my own mind is tempted to test my will upon it, to see if I cannot wrench it from Sauron's sight, and turn it where I would-, to look across the wide seas of water, and of time to Tirion the Fair, to behold the White Tree and the Golden in flower!" He smiled as Lalaith studied his wistful face that shook itself quickly, and returned to a sober calm. "But I dare not. For even now, I too, could fall under Sauron's hold."

"I wish I had known all this before." Pippin grumbled. "I had no notion of what I was doing-,"

"Oh, yes you did!" Crowed Gandalf in a tone that made Lalaith smirk, and Pippin cringe. "You knew you were behaving wrongly and foolishly. Even were I to have told you all this before, you still would have done what you did. But the burned hand, for some, is often the best teacher. I do not doubt but that you have learned your lesson, now."

"I have." Pippin sighed in a voice that softened Lalaith's heart, and brought a gentle expression to the wizard's face. "Even if all the seven stones were laid out in front of me, I would close my eyes, and put my hands in my pockets."

"Good!" Cried Gandalf, shooting a mischievous wink to Lalaith, which she grinned at. "That is what I hoped."

On the horses galloped, tireless, both of them, Hasufel giving Shadowfax no cause to slow for him. And no surprise it was, for as Gandalf had told her, Hasufel had dwelt in Lórien for a time, under the gentle care of the Elves, feeding upon the rich grasses in the misty glades about Cerin Amroth. The strength of the Golden Wood was infused in his blood, and he was as one of the Mearas now. But why had they sent him back? Perhaps Grandmother had foreseen Lalaith's need for him, and sent the faithful creature to her aide. Or-, Lalaith's heart caught upon a beat at a thought that flickered and faded, unremembered from her thoughts. Perhaps, she thought, groping in vain for the remnants of the forgotten memory, another may have had a hand in Hasufel's timely return?

Perhaps. She thought, and wondered on it long as the horses galloped beneath them, the earth under their thundering hooves an unending blur of grass and earth.


	23. Chapter 22

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 22**

**August 18, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 22

Across the wide plain before the three riders, rose the high imposing walls of the Ephel Duath, the cracked and ragged Mountains of Shadow.

Never before had Lalaith been so near to them, to see so closely the bitter red of the fire of Mount Doom ever flinging upward into the blackened sky of that land. All that Elrond had taught her of that cursed place, all that she had read of in her lessons, had not prepared her for the shadow that fell across her heart like a black and heavy pall, knowing that she was nearer to the black land than she had ever been in the whole of her life.

Up a steep, sloping hill Shadowfax, galloped, Hasufel not a wit behind him, until Gandalf urged his silver mount to a halt, and Lalaith, following his lead, drew back on Hasufel's reins, bringing him to a skidding stop, his sides heaving beneath her.

Drawing in a swift sigh, Lalaith's attention was drawn away gratefully from the looming Mountains of Shadow, to the high white city that appeared before her now, rising against the mountains at its back, seeming to be carved out of the very cliffside itself. The proud white city rose in steep tiers, ascending ever higher toward the sky. A white pinnacle of stone jutted out from the center of the gleaming city smooth and flat at its crest. And at its leveled peak, rose the high white tower of Ecthelion, a spear of silver in the golden sunlight, thrusting into the sky as if in fearless defiance of the black power that challenged it. How very like it had appeared as it had in the palantir. And Lalaith could not help but shiver, knowing that this proud, beautiful city was now the focus of Sauron's devious gaze.

"Minas Tirith." Gandalf announced, giving voice to her thoughts. "City of Kings."

With that, he spurred Shadowfax on again, and Hasufel, needing no urging from her, sped after the lordly silver horse down the grassy slope of the hill, and toward the arching gate within the proud alabaster wall.

As they flew across the plane onward toward the city, a high, clear ringing echoed out to great them, as of silver trumpets. And as the city drew closer, Lalaith could not keep a tightened lump from forming in her throat. For this was Boromir's home, she remembered. Beloved of him from childhood, to which he would never return.

...

With a rolling boom, and a sharp clatter as of heavy iron locks drawn back, the high arching doors of Minas Tirith rolled open before them, and the two horses clattered swiftly inside.

"Mithrandir, hail to you!" Many voices of men cried, as armored soldiers made way for the wizard and his companions. The Men's eyes were all a mix of fixed courage, and fear as they gazed upon Gandalf with fierce  
>and desperate gratitude as of one come timely to their aide. Many eyes flashed over both herself and Pippin, and many curious glances flashed between the men, but no questions were posed.<p>

"Does the storm draw nigh?" one cried.

"It is upon you," said Gandalf, pausing Shadowfax with a gentle touch to his neck, "I have ridden on its wings, bringing companions with me who might do their part to aid you. I must come to your Lord Denethor, while his stewardship lasts."

And speaking no more words to stay them, the men watched as the horses clipped through, the stones of the city clattering hard beneath their hooves as they drew into a swift gallop once again, dashing up the sloping streets, Hasufel following hard behind the great silver horse, as they raced one after the other along the narrow pathways.

Houses of carven stone flashed past on either side as the horses galloped upward along the narrow streets, and at Gandalf's warning cry, people parted swiftly to let the clattering horses pass. Lalaith caught only glimpses as faces flashed past, watching from doorways, beneath archways, and at the corners of the streets, men and women, and children as well. Many children, their eyes wide and curious following after her as she rode past. The buildings of white alabaster were not delicate and fluted as those in Imladris, yet theirs was a proud beauty, speaking silently of the enduring strength of the first Men who had formed this city. Carved from the mountainside by the hands of Men now long dead, but who had passed their enduring legacy on to their children, those who dwelt here now, and who meant to defend the city they loved with their very blood.

Bright banners floated upon the wind, hanging from more than a few windows, testifying silently of the undying courage of these brave mortals; and here and there, where earth and space had allowed their planting, brightly colored flowers waved with undaunted courage in the wind, like small, glad flags. And those who had planted them, as brave and  
>unbending beneath the cloud of fear and death that threatened to spread over them. Boldly defiant of Mordor these Men were, though the black land was so near, ever in their sight, the distant roaring of Mount Doom ever<br>within their ears. Yet their eyes were brave, as Lalaith met their gazes, filling with what seemed a mixture of surprise and hope at the sight of her, an Elf. Perhaps the first of her race, she realized with a small shiver, these mortals had ever seen.

Onward the horses tirelessly galloped, clattering ever upward along the stone streets, surging up one steep path and through shadowed tunnels bored through the heart of the stone pinnacle, only to swerve about a sharp corner to go lunging up another road, ever drawing closer to the  
>high tower. Onward the horses galloped, up steep stone paved roads, and through sharply bending tunnels until at last, they broke into sunlight and surged upward onto a wide, flat courtyard. A tall white tree stood in the center of the courtyard beside the cool of a laughing fountain, surrounded by a sward of soft, well tended grass.<p>

Here, at last, as armored guards stepped forward to hail them, Shadowfax clattered to a stop, and Hasufel beside him as Lalaith shot Pippin a meaningful glance, and gestured her head toward the bare white tree. That was the very tree they had both seen.

The earth stilled beneath them, and as Gandalf slid swiftly to the ground, reaching up to help Pippin down, Lalaith leapt lightly down as well. And once again, though it had seemed many long ages since, she put her feet firmly at last, onto the firm stones of solid ground.

"I will see to your mount, my-, my lady," gulped an armored guard, a young man, who clenched a spear in one hand, a shield upon his other arm, and whose eyes shone clear and blue beneath the silver shimmer of his tipped helmet.

"Thank you," she murmured in return, to which he said nothing, but gulped again, and shank back from her a step, as if in quiet awe. She offered him a slim smile, then turned away to follow after Gandalf.

"It's the tree, isn't it?" Pippin gasped, nudging Lalaith's arm as he jogged along at her elbow, a step behind the wizard as Gandalf strode before them swiftly toward the great doors of the high hall. "You saw it too, didn't you?"

"Yes, it is the same one we saw in the palantir," she sighed, glancing down into Pippin's eyes as they rounded the small fountain, passing the cloaked guards winged helmet upon their heads, solemn and unmoving who stood about the tree, gazing outward into the four directions.

_The White Tree,_ she added to herself, _whose ancestry hailed back to the Uttermost West._ But now it was withered and graying with decay.

"Gandalf, Gandalf!" Pippin chirped, scampering ahead to the wizard who strode before them.

"Yes, the White Tree of Gondor. The Tree of the king." Gandalf mused, before casting a meaningful glance down upon the Hobbit. "Lord Denethor, however, is not the king. He is a steward only, a caretaker of the throne."

Upon this plateau, the wind was brisk, catching at their cloaks as Gandalf drew to a stop upon the steps before the arching doorway of dark wrought iron.

"Now listen carefully," he muttered, glancing down at Pippin who stood at his right shoulder as Lalaith came to stand at his left, "Lord Denethor is Boromir's father. To give him news of his beloved son's death, would be most unwise." Pippin nodded briskly at this, but Lalaith simply glanced downward, upon the white, smoothly hewn stones at her feet as a vague, sweet pain wrenched her heart.

"And do not mention Frodo, or the Ring." Gandalf continued as an afterthought, to which Pippin, ever wide eyed, nodded, as Gandalf took a step forward, then paused, and turning back to the Hobbit again added, "And say nothing of Aragorn either."

He started forward, and Lalaith began up a step behind him before Gandalf once again paused, halting her steps abruptly, and turned to shoot a heavy glance downward at the Hobbit beside him.

"In fact, it's better if you don't speak at all, Peregrin Took," he finished briskly.

The nervous glance Pippin shot up to Gandalf as the young Hobbit licked his lips and nodded, might have caused Lalaith to laugh another time, but she could only manage a slim smile before Gandalf hurried forward once again, and she with Pippin followed on either side of him, toward the great iron doors.


	24. Chapter 23

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 23**

**August 31, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 23

The doors drew opened with an echoing clatter onto a great hall, washed in sunlight that spilled in through wide windows over head. Tall somber pillars of black marble marched in two even rows down each side of the high hall, the wide vaulting above gleaming like dull gold. No banners hung in here, no glimmering tapestries, or carven wood. But between the polished black pillars stood a silent company of tall images, kings of foregone days, now long passed from the circles of the world.

At the far end, upon a dais reached by many steps, higher even than perhaps Gandalf's head, was set a high white throne beneath a golden canopy that hung down from the high ceiling from chains of gold. It was carven in the shape of a crown, and behind it, upon the white stone wall, was engraved the image of a tree in flower. The throne itself, was empty. But at the base of the steps ascending to the shining white throne, there was another throne. Black, and unadorned. And on it, sat a man, his dark hair flecked with many strands of grey. Against his chair leaned a white rod with a golden knob. He did not look up at the approach of the three. He was gazing at something intently in his lap that lay mostly concealed in the folds of his dark robe.

Gandalf did not speak. Pippin's breath was quick and fast in the quiet. Lalaith drew in a long, weighted breath. Nothing stirred as their feet padded lightly over the floor, Gandalf's staff tapping the smooth stone ever moment or two.

Even as they drew nearer, the old man did not look up, as if entirely unaware of their approach.

Behind Gandalf's back, Pippin shot a questioning glance at Lalaith, but she shook her head silently, having no more answers than he.

"Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion," Gandalf's voice echoed at last, somber yet warm also, as he drew to a stop before the throne of dark stone, "lord and steward of Gondor."

The man who was Boromir's father looked very like his son, and Lalaith imagined that he had resembled Boromir in appearance when he had been a young man. But now he sat bowed and weak, his shoulders sagged. He shuddered and sighed, but did not move, or glance up from the thing he held in his lap, from which the fold of his sleeve slowly fell away.

A sudden stab of fierce raw pain lanced through Lalaith as she recognized what he held, but she stood erect, and tight jawed, blinking her eyes fiercely. For this was not the place to weep.

"I come with tidings in this dark hour," continued Gandalf when Denethor did not speak. "And with counsel."

"Perhaps, you come to explain this," the old man hissed, drawing from his lap the two halves of Boromir's split horn. A soft gasp beside her, told her Pippin now recognized it, too. The old man glanced up with a bitter, pleading expression. "Perhaps you come to tell me why my son is dead."

His lower chin trembled, as if any moment, he would break out into ragged sobs. The silence in the hall grew heavy. Gandalf drew and released a breath, though he did not yet speak.

"Boromir died to save us," Lalaith's eyes shot toward Pippin, who, against Gandalf's command, had spoken. He nodded at Lalaith who watched him, her mouth now fallen partly open, "this lady, as well as my kinsman and me." Skirting quickly around Gandalf's robe, he came forward, and knelt before the bent old man. "He fell, defending us from many foes."

"Pippin!" Gandalf protested, but Pippin did not glance back, his small earnest face gazing up into Denethor's, which seemed slightly softened at the approach of the small Hobbit.

"I offer you my service, such as it is," Pippin lifted his eyes, his gaze staid and solemn, "in payment of this debt."

"Get up," grumbled Gandalf, slapping his staff gently against Pippin, to which the Hobbit hopped again to his feet as the wizard stepped nearer the throne.

"My lord, there will be a time to grieve for Boromir," he offered gravely, "but it is not now." Gandalf drew in a breath, his eyes taking upon them a look of deep concern. "War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep! As steward, you are charged with the defense of this city! Where are Gondor's armies?"

Denethor's mouth twitched strangely at these words. His eyes shot a momentary glance at Lalaith, to which she drew an involuntary step backward. His glance was sharper than his sons had been and a wild light lay half hidden in the shadows of his eyes. But there was pain also within his gaze, sadness and despair. And in that moment, Lalaith both feared, and pitied him.

"You still have friends." Gandalf continued, his tone growing gentle and encouraging, and Denethor's eyes snapped back to him. "You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons."

"You think you are wise, Mithrandir." Denethor seethed, trembling with barely bridled emotion as he spoke. "Yet for all your subtleties, you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the white tower are blind? I have seen more than you know."

At these words, a cold shudder ran along Lalaith's limbs, though she could not tell why. Something in Denethor suddenly reminded her of the blackness she had seen within the eyes of Saruman, though she could sense something else within this mortal also, some small part of him that lived and felt, and had compassion, some gentleness within him that had long passed from the soul of the fallen wizard.

"With your left hand, you would use me as a shield against Mordor. And with your right, you would seek to supplant me." Denethor grated in a bitter voice. "I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan." His eyes narrowed, calculating. "Oh, yes. Word has reached my ears of this _Aragorn_, son of Arathorn. And I tell you now, I will not bow to this Ranger from the North," Lalaith stiffened at the caustic tone spat from Denethor's lips, "last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship!"

"Authority is not given you to deny the return of the king, _steward_." Gandalf barked, to which Denethor lunged to his feet.

"The rule of Gondor is _mine_!" He shouted. "And no other's." His voice reverberated through the empty hall. Gandalf remained unmoved, and Pippin stood as if one struck mute with shock. Lalaith narrowed her eyes and fumed inwardly at the fierceness in his tone, at his caustic words concerning her dear and trusted friend, Aragorn. Yet she could not help but feel a shred of mercy, for she saw in his eyes a tiny glimmer beneath the anger and the hardness a small glimpse of the goodness that still lived in his heart.

For a long dreadful moment, Gandalf and Denethor eyed each other fiercely, before with a huff, Gandalf spun away.

"Come," he ordered, and Lalaith turned after him, striding swiftly to match her pace to his as Pippin jogged along at his other arm, glancing back now and again at Denethor. The doors drew near, and the guards silently opened them. But just before the three passed into the sunlight, Lalaith glanced back, once again to see the aged steward sagged upon his throne.

Her heart caught raggedly upon a beat at what she saw. For his shoulders were shaking as he clutched Boromir's shattered horn against himself. And he was weeping.


	25. Chapter 24

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 24**

**September 10, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 24

The night shadows were cool and a refreshingly restful change from their hurried flight over the past days. The terraces of the city that fell below her vantage point, shone silver beneath the gentle moonlight, sleeping the restless sleep of a frightened, though wearied creature as Lalaith, a small wooden cup of sweet wine in her hand, leaned against a square beam of stone between the archways upon the veranda of the house that had been set aside for Gandalf and Pippin. There had been a small suite of rooms given her as well. But she did not want to be there, alone with her thoughts in those strange, dark chambers, with the red light of the distant fires of Mount Doom casting mottled shadows through her windows.

Gandalf was puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, staring with somber eyes over the lower levels of the city and onto the Pelennor fields, his eyes on the distant shadowed shapes that were the ragged remains of Osgiliath, the silver ribbon of the Anduin trailing peacefully through the midst of the ruined city, where drifts of smoke rose from the ruined wreckage like tormented ghosts in the night air. With her Elven sight, Lalaith could see the fractured dome in the midst of the city. Osgiliath must have once been a beautiful place, she mused, drawing in long breaths of the soft night air as behind her, Pippin tinkered with the trappings that had been delivered to him earlier, the uniform of a soldier of Gondor. Small thick soled boots formed for a child's feet, which had amused the young Hobbit before he had set them aside, a dark tunic and breeches, mail and armor, a leather jerkin dyed black and etched with an image of the White Tree, and a small sword, all fashioned for his tiny Hobbit's body. They had once belonged to a young boy, she guessed. And she wondered in her mind who the boy was. He had been a lad of some importance, she guessed. Boromir, she wondered with a sad shiver, or perhaps another man, still living, whom she had not yet met?

She tugged thoughtfully upon the stiff sleeves of the gown she wore now. It was one of several of that had been waiting in her new rooms when she and Pippin had returned from seeing to the horses who had been watered and fed with gentle care, and housed in pens within a large empty stable, just outside the walls of the citadel.

The dress was finely seamed, sewn of heavy though soft velvet of midnight blue, and embroidered richly at the throat, and at the wide sleeves that hung open from her wrists. She would have much preferred her own gowns in Imladris, or at the least, the lighter one Eowyn had given her. But the matrons who had been waiting with her new dresses and had declared themselves at her service, had whisked it swiftly away, promising to return it once it was properly washed. She hoped they would, not burn it as she feared they might from the look of horror within their eyes at the sight of it, a rumpled lump of cloth from the long ride tucked in its bundle against her body.

"So I imagine this is just a-, ceremonial position."

Pippin's voice rose as he drew his small short sword partway from its sheath with a faint metallic rasp before clapping it back again. She turned and glance back at him to see his bright face smiling, a hint of worry entering his eyes. "I mean, they don't expect me to do any fighting. Do they?"

"You're in the service of the steward now." Gandalf grumped, rolling his eyes and flashing Lalaith a covert glance of annoyance. "You're going to have to do as you're told, Peregrin Took, guard of the Citadel."

With a small sigh, Pippin drew forward between the columns of stone where Gandalf and Lalaith stood, and rested on his elbows upon the balustrade that came nearly to his chin. Lalaith finished the last of the sweet red wine in her glass, and moved to step up beside the Hobbit.

"I'll take that, my dear." Gandalf murmured, drawing the cup from her hand, and setting it upon a small wooden table beside the column where he stood as the maiden joined Pippin at the rail, glad for the solid stone beneath her hands.

"Even with the gathering darkness, this city is still a lovely sight," Lalaith whispered, speaking mostly to herself.

"Mm." Pippin returned in agreement. "It's so quiet."

"It's the deep breath before the plunge." Gandalf murmured gravely.

_Before the vast armies of Mordor gather against Minas Tirith,_, Lalaith added in her thoughts, repressing a sudden shudder of fear. She would be here when they came. Why had Gandalf brought her? What was the wisdom in it?

The hope of Middle Earth would have been doomed had she stayed behind, Lalaith answered herself quickly as she gazed across the darkness at the harsh glow of Mount Doom beyond the Ephel Duath. She was reluctantly glad for Gandalf's wisdom, she admitted to herself. Now that he was aware of her, Sauron would have sent his darkest minions to take her. And had she stayed in Edoras, that would have endangered Rohan. And Legolas, also. She shivered, suddenly and painfully lonely at the thought of him. A longing to feel his arms about her, to feel his breath against her hair, trailed achingly along her skin. But she frowned and fought it back. Aragorn needed Legolas with him, she silently scolded herself. And Lalaith needed to be in Minas Tirith, if for nothing else, to keep Sauron from focusing his violent wrath upon the Rohirrim. Now that she and Pippin were here, Sauron would turn his focus upon Minas Tirith as he had before, forgetting Rohan for another day, unaware, in his own selfish blindness, the greater power that good possessed by its inherent selflessness. Never would it enter Sauron's mind until, perhaps, it was too late for him, that the Rohirrim might come to the aid of Gondor. Unhindered by Sauron's cruel minions seeking for her, Théoden and his riders would come more swiftly at Gondor's need. That was why she came here, Lalaith knew. And perhaps-, perhaps there was something here for her to _do_, as well.

"I don't want to be in a battle." Pippin murmured wistfully, and she turned her head, glancing down upon his curly honey colored hair. "But waiting on the edge of one I can't escape is even worse."

Gandalf's steps were soft as he came to lean upon the balustrade on Pippin's other side.

"Is there any hope Gandalf," Pippin murmured, "for Frodo and Sam?"

"There never was much hope." Gandalf sighed, leaning upon his elbows against the stone balustrade, and smiling softly at his two companions. "Just a fool's hope."

"Which gives us more to hope for, than the despair of the wise would." Lalaith murmured.

"Mm. That is true indeed." Gandalf agreed softly, before his smile faded, and he glanced out into the darkness across the river. "In my heart, I believe that Frodo is still alive, and that he is drawing ever closer to his goal.

"But our enemy is ready, now." He murmured somberly. "His full strength's gathered. Not only orcs, but Men as well." His voice grew weighted with foreboding, and Lalaith swallowed softly, her fingers tightening upon the stone rail.

"Legions of Haradrim from the south," Gandalf droned heavily, "mercenaries from the coast, all will answer Mordor's call."

Gandalf straightened slightly, though his hands remained on the rail, his eyes fixed upon the red glow of Mount Doom in the eastern sky. "This will be the end of Gondor as we know it. Here the hammer stroke will fall hardest." His voice grew softer, though still taut as he again leaned heavily upon his elbows, "If the river is taken, if the garrison at Osgiliath falls, the last defense of this city will be gone."

Lalaith gave an involuntary shudder at this as she gazed over the shadowed ruins of Osgiliath, before she felt a soft nudge against her arm, and looked down to see Pippin's eyes smiling up at her.

"But we have the White Wizard, don't we, Lalaith?" He soothed, before he glanced toward Gandalf. "That's got to count for something."

Gandalf's expression remained heavy and drawn, and he pushed himself straight, gazing with solemn eyes over the river, and upon the shadowed mountains in the distance.

"Gandalf?" Pippin asked softly.

"Sauron has yet to reveal his deadliest servant." Gandalf murmured in a grave whisper. "The one who will lead Mordor's armies in war. The one they say no living man can kill." Lalaith stiffened at his words, and Pippin's hand upon hers tightened gently. "The Witch-king of Angmar." Gandalf glanced at Pippin with raised brows. "You've met him before. He stabbed Frodo on Weathertop." At this, Pippin frowned, shivering slightly, and Lalaith placed a soft hand upon his small shoulder. "He is the lord of the Nazgûl. The greatest of the nine. Minas Morgul is his lair."

"Once Minas Ithil, but taken by Sauron's forces, and made into an evil place." Lalaith murmured silently, and Gandalf nodded toward a jutting shoulder of the distant mountains that hid a sharp, narrow gouge, bathed in shadow.

"That is the Morgul Vale. Where Minas Morgul lies. The stronghold from where Sauron's forces will emerge."

"My lords, and-, my lady."

A voice behind them, drew the three back from the balustrade, and Lalaith turned, as a young man, clad in servants garb, drew near through the inner chambers.

"Forgive me." He said softly, with a bow of his head. "But Lord Denethor wishes to speak with you."

"Augh, what does he want at this late hour?" Gandalf gruffed impatiently, as he made as if to follow the young man, but the servant quickly shook his head.

"No, not you, Mithrandir." He stuttered. "He wishes to speak to the lady."

"To _me_?" Lalaith asked, turning suddenly, shooting a glance of uncertainty at Gandalf.

A worried look claimed Pippin's face, and he stepped forward. "But-,"

"She'll be fine." Gandalf murmured, putting a hand upon Pippin's small shoulder, and giving a smiling nod to Lalaith. "Go on then, my dear, and good luck! Perhaps _you_ can talk some sense into him."

Taking courage from Gandalf's reassuring nod, she gave them a last smile, and followed after the young man, who offered her a stiffened bow, then turned, and led her through the lit chambers, and out into the cool breezy shadows of the night.


	26. Chapter 25

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 25**

**September 23, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 25

Her guide's steps, silent and steady, took him up toward the citadel again, and Lalaith followed a step behind him, asking no questions, though her mind was brimming with them. Across the green swarth of grass the young man led her, past the white tree that leered eerily down upon her in the night shadows, and toward the great doors.

The guards, silent and still as statues, drew the great iron wrought doors open with an echoing clatter, and with one last gesture beckoning her into the hall, the young man bowed his head, and turned away from her, his fading steps brisk in the quiet.

As she stepped into the hall, now lit with flickering candles set along the hall in tall rods of dark iron, the doors boomed shut behind her, and she was alone. Denethor sat as she had seen him before, in his throne of dark stone. But now at least, his head was lifted, as if he was watching for her, and she strode tentatively over the smooth stone floor, drawing ever nearer to the somber lord of Gondor. How late it was, Lalaith thought to herself. Did the man never sleep, or even leave his throne?

"Ah, you are here. Lady Lalaith of Rivendell." Denethor called out to her as she came, offering her a warm smile as she drew nearer. "Yes, I know who you are, my dear. Thank you, for coming, though the hour has grown late." She stopped several paces from him, taken aback. How very different he seemed now, congenial and kind, when he had been so belligerent to Gandalf earlier. She was still smarting inwardly from his unkind words to Gandalf, especially what he had said concerning Aragorn. And yet she found herself returning his smile. For now in his gentle, smiling eyes she could see Boromir, far more clearly than she had before.

"Come closer, my child." He urged, lifting a hand and beckoning her toward him before he chuckled softly to himself. "Ah, but I speak in haste, for you are not a child. Doubtless you are ages older than I. And yet-, had Boromir not fallen, you could have been my own daughter."

She furrowed her brow at this, not understanding what he meant by his words. But she could not bring herself to ask his meaning.

"Ah, there." He breathed, when at last she had drawn close enough that he could reach out and take her hand within his. Long he studied her face, smiling as he did, until at last, he murmured, in a voice that had grown soft and broken, "Finduilas would have loved such a daughter as you. But no, `twas not fated to us that a daughter should come, but rather another _son_."

Lalaith furrowed her brow at the last word hissed distastefully from his lips. He spoke of Boromir's brother, the second of his two sons, his only child left alive. Yet the thought seemed an unpleasant thing to him.

"Do you wish for something to eat, or drink perhaps?" Denethor brightened, suddenly coming to himself, and clambering to his feet still holding her hand gently within his own. "Come," he urged, guiding her toward a long table set near the pillars.

It sat half in shadow, a carved wooden seat at its head, and another smaller chair at its ride hand, the two chairs set close together in spite of the table's vast size. A silver decanter of wine, and two glasses sat beside a tray piled with small white cakes.

Denethor went to it, scurrying almost like a boy eager to please toward the table, as he released her hand, and drew out the chair that was set near the right hand of the first. "Please," he offered when Lalaith hesitated, "sit."

"Thank you, my lord." Lalaith murmured softly as she sat, though her mind brimmed now with questions, even more than what she had wished to ask when she had first come.

"Doubtless you have guessed as to the reasons I have called you here." He murmured, taking the chair at the head of the table, and folding his hands upon it, smiling again at her.

"Ah, no my lord. I have not-,"

Lalaith grew silent, for her words had seemed to sober him. His smile fell, and his eyes dropped.

"But surely you would know-," he breathed, his voice suddenly sobered, "that I wished to speak to you about my son."

At this, Lalaith's heart sighed, and her shoulders fell as she slowly nodded. Of course. Why else would he have called her? Pippin had already confessed to Denethor that Boromir had died to save them. Surely his grieving father would wish to speak of his son's last moments with those for whom he had sacrificed his life. Yet then-, why had he not sent also for Pippin?

"What would you wish to know, my lord? I will tell you what I can." She said, clasping her hands in her lap, struggling to still the grief that surged again within her heart.

Denethor turned his eyes upon her as he smiled once again, a gentle smile as of a father to his daughter.

"How strong you seem." He murmured softly, his smile lingering, though his eyes grew sad. "How brave, to have come to us in this dark time. Yet also, how fair you are, delicate as a flower. That you are the one my son's heart softened to at last, does not surprise me."

Lalaith shifted in her chair, her hands tightening in her lap as Denethor reached thoughtfully for the wine, and the soft flow of tumbling liquid seemed to echo long in the quiet as Denethor filled both glasses, then pushed one toward her.

"I would never have dreamed he would learn to love an Elf maiden." Denethor mused, taking a thoughtful sip. "But then, I do not doubt that the sacrifice of your endless life would have been no small thing to you, in exchange for the love of my son. You could have married him, and borne his children. But your hopes were dashed. And yet, you endure. You have not faded as another of your race might, whose lover has been claimed by death. But it does not surprise me. Boromir would not give his love to a weak hearted maiden."

Her throat had grown swiftly dry as he had spoken, as the sudden realization settled on her that Denethor gravely misunderstood her kinship to Boromir. Was that why he had called her? Denethor thought she had loved Boromir, pledged her troth to him perhaps, and thus become Denethor's own daughter, at least in her intent? "_Ai_, my lord-," she breathed swiftly straightening in her chair, and ignoring the glass before her, "Boromir was a great Man, good and honorable. For his faults were few in the light of his many virtues. There is pain in my heart still, for his loss, and it will never truly fade-,"

To this, Denethor furrowed his brows sympathetically, and nodded, and Lalaith continued more hurriedly than before, "But I must endure, and so I do. Perhaps one day, when the darkness has passed, I will be able to grieve for Boromir as he truly deserved. For he was a dear and trusted-," she swallowed softly, "_friend_, my lord."

"Friend?" Denethor muttered, a darkness veiling his eyes with the suddenness of a storm cloud rolling before the sun.

"Indeed, my lord," Lalaith blurted, struggling to hide her exasperation at his sudden mood change. "Boromir was truly one of the greatest men of any race I have ever known. But I never entertained any dreams of a life beside him-,"

"Boromir loved you, did he not? He gave you his heart. I know it." Denethor demanded suddenly, his eyes growing hard, and to this, Lalaith lowered her eyes, feeling a twinge of guilt before she nodded reluctantly.

"He did, my lord." She murmured, lifting her eyes. One hand unconsciously lifted, touching the medallion beneath her gown where it rested, cool against her skin. "But I never loved him, no more than I would love a brother, for my own heart belongs to-,"

"_He died for you_!" Denethor grated, lunging suddenly to his feet.

His voice echoed long in the shadowed silence, and Lalaith stiffened at his accusing tone.

"What else could he have done, to earn your love?" he shouted, striding away from the table, his arms akimbo before he wheeled back and glared at her. "What other impossible task could he have performed, to make you believe him worthy of you?" Denethor demanded, his voice fraught with anger.

"My lord," Lalaith murmured through clenched teeth, fully understanding now, Gandalf's own profound frustration with this impertinent mortal. "I know no other man more worthy than Boromir-,"

"Then is it death you fear?" He shot back. "You will not give your heart to a mortal for you fear to die? Boromir did not fear to die for _you_!"

"And I would have died for _him_!" Lalaith seethed, rising slowly to her own feet, furious with Denethor for his harsh judgment of her, and angry also at the pain his words renewed within her. "I fought _side by side_ with Boromir. We slew many orcs together, but I was struck by an arrow in the side at the last, and I fell into blackness." She put her fists on the table at this, and leaned closer to Denethor, gazing hard into his cold eyes. "Even then, Boromir did not abandon me. He had always known I could not love him. Yet he fought for me, for my friends the Hobbits, and I do not doubt but that we are alive because of his sacrifice. He was a good and valiant man." Lalaith clenched her jaw, and stood back as she studied Denethor's dark unwavering eyes. Softly she hissed, "It must be something he inherited from his mother."

Denethor remained silent for a long moment, the quiet of the great shadowed hall weighted as he drew in a heavy breath that swelled his chest before he released it in a huff. He would reprimand her, Lalaith knew. He would shout at her, banish her from the hall, and she braced herself for his next words.

"Faramir is more like his mother was," Denethor muttered quietly at last, his eyes dropping to the table before him.

"Then you have been blessed with _two_ noble sons, my lord." Lalaith breathed, her voice falling quietly back into its place.

Denethor's face fell at this. "I would have liked half-elven grandchildren," he whimpered, falling heavily back into the wooden chair, and snatching up one of the small white cakes.

Lalaith remained on her feet, her eyes silently studying him. Denethor mawed the cake as if it were a shank of roasted mutton. A crumb flaked loose, and clung, unheeded, to the shadowed scruff of his chin.

"I do not doubt but that she whom your living son chooses as his bride, will give you many fine grandchildren," she murmured quietly.

A long moment passed. Denethor sat chewing his cake as if entirely ignorant of her presence, or the soft words she had spoken.

"May I go now, my lord?" She asked quietly, to which Denethor looked up, seeming to be surprised that she was still standing before him.

"Mm," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively, before he snatched another cake.

Lalaith pushed herself away from the table. Denethor's eyes were fixed away from her as she went, and he did not look up as she bowed her head slightly in farewell, and turned away, her footsteps soft in the quiet as she made her way to the doors, drawn open by silent guards, and quietly, with a heavy heart, stepped out into the cool dark of the night.

The doors had not yet boomed shut behind her, when Lalaith caught a hard breath of amazement in her throat as her eyes fixed upon the rod of cold, rippling lightning, that blazed straight up into the black clouds that roiled above the Ephel Duath, coloring them to an eerie green hue.

"_Ai, Elbereth_." She breathed, and glancing at the door wardens, whose eyes were as fixed in shock as hers were she asked, "What is that?"

"I-," one of the men gulped, speechless as he shook his head.

"It comes from the Morgul Vale." The other answered in a subdued tone.

"Thee enemy is ready," she murmured aloud, and to this, the men behind her glanced at each other, and shifted their weight nervously.

Then drawing in a hard breath, Lalaith snatched up the hem of her gown, and broke into a run down the steps and away from the great hall, longing suddenly for the nearness of Gandalf and Pippin, for she had much to tell them.


	27. Chapter 26

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 26**

**October 7, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 26

"Ah, Elrohir." Celeborn called in a warm voice, from where he stood at the crest of a set of silver steps overlaying the sloping root of a great Mallorn. His hands were outspread in welcome, appearing as ever, the noble Lord of Lórien that he was as Elrohir drew his mount to a halt beneath the soft golden glow of Caras Galadhon, and leapt from the saddle.

"You have come safe, in spite of our worries." Celeborn continued as Elrohir turned the reins over to a youthful, fair haired boy who accepted them with eager eyes. The lad could hardly be any older than fifty, yet he seemed capable enough, eager to please as he smiled, and offered a somewhat clumsy bow, and hurried away, the horse following at ease, upon his heels.

Celeborn's glance darted past the younger Elf's shoulders, an unspoken question appearing on his face before his eyes focused once again upon the younger of his grandsons.

"You brought no companions?"

"I did not think it right to compel any others to accompany me across the mountain passes, grandfather." As Celeborn shook his head, an expression of mild disapproval on his face, Elrohir swiftly added with a plaintive grin, "After all, I can take care of myself, can I not?"

Celeborn's glance of mild rebuke changed to a warm smile, and he descended the few steps that remained between himself and his grandson, and embraced him tightly before he drew back, his eyes bright with welcome.

"You were always the daring one." He smiled, before his faced sobered, and his brows twitched. "Elladan remained then, with Arwen?"

Elrohir's own playful smile faded, and he bobbed his head as the Lord of Lórien turned away, following a meandering path, and his grandson followed him at his shoulder. "She is growing weaker."

"Her fate is now tied to the Ring." Celeborn sighed somberly, shaking his head slightly, his jaw set, much as Elrond's had been. "When it is gone into the fire, she will recover."

Elrohir drew in a low sigh at his grandfather's words as the two Elves passed beneath the silver lights of the houses perched above them. _When_, Celeborn had said, not _if_.

"Our young guest, for whom you have come, is a fair, golden haired maiden, near Lalaith's age, we guess, though perhaps some few centuries younger." Celeborn explained as the pair reached a row of silver steps that curved up the ledge of a low hill, twined about by the arching roots of Mallyrn. "None know who she is, nor who her kin may be."

"Yes," Elrohir nodded. "So Haldir's brother Rumil said, when I met him and the guards upon the forest eaves."

Celeborn paused a moment, a step ahead of Elrohir, and glanced back at him, a humored light dancing in his eyes before he asked, "The warriors from Imladris said nothing to you of Haldir, when they returned, did they?"

"I had no chance to speak with any of them." Elrohir returned with a shake of his head. "I remained near Arwen the whole of my time home. I have heard nothing of Haldir, good or ill." His eyes grew worried. "Was he injured?"

Celeborn sighed thoughtfully at the question. "Aye, he-, was. But he has since-, recovered."

"That is good to know." Elrohir nodded, a breath of relief escaping his lips. "It must have been a great relief to his lady."

"None can imagine." Celeborn dropped his eyes, his lips drawing up in a thoughtful smile before he glanced once again at his grandson a step beneath him.

"Come." He murmured warmly, resting a hand on the younger Elf's shoulder, and drawing him up beside him as they continued to mount the steps. "It is time for you to meet our little Nimrodel."

"Is that her name?" Elrohir asked. "Then she has remembered who she is?"

"No, not as yet," Celeborn answered with a small chuckle. "But it seemed a proper name for her, for she was found near the stream that bears her name, and she is bright and lithe of foot as the maiden Nimrodel once was-," Celeborn's voice faded off into distant, somber thoughts of his own, before he rallied quickly and smiled once again at his grandson. "And the maid could hardly go about, nameless." He finished, his voice brightening, to which Elrohir smiled.

At this, he drew to a stop, and glanced forward, Elrohir following his gaze as they looked over a flower strewn glen, where spears of warm morning sunlight streamed down through the plaited branches above their heads and danced across the glade where a soft breeze fanned the high grasses as a group of sprightly young Elflings danced hither and thither through the flowers, singing or laughing as they played at their childish games, or chased the fleeting spears of dancing light across the grass as their mothers watched after them from the edge of the glade with smiling eyes. At the far edge of the bright clearing, where a soft shadow swathed the grass, sat a young woman Elrohir did not recognize. She cradled a small Elfling of no greater than five years upon her lap, his downy drowsing head resting upon her slim shoulder. How fair she seemed, Elrohir could not help but note, her eyes soft and curious like a child's, her face delicate and slender, with a soft, smiling mouth full and warm beneath a pert little nose. Her form was slender and maidenly, graceful like a willow where she sat, her skirts billowed about her like a white shimmering cloud, with the infant against her shoulder.

Her lord was a fortunate man, Elrohir found himself thinking, the father of the young Elfling upon her lap, for she was fairer than any other woman he had ever known. And Elrohir sighed, and glanced away.

Aside from himself and Celeborn, the Marchwarden Haldir was the only male Elf present, seated not far from the crest of the steps upon an arched root. His wife, Lothirien, sat beside him, her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes gazing dreamily over the cantering Elflings as her lord's arm circled about her, his hand resting in a protective gesture upon her stomach. There was something different about him, something grand and ethereal, which Elrohir could not place. But then-, Elrohir recalled the news that had come to Imladris before their departure for the havens; Haldir and Lothirien were newly married. At this, Elrohir smirked to himself, and dismissed the thought.

Not far away from the newly wedded couple sat Elrohir's own grandmother. Galadriel was seated delicately upon a silver root as fair and as light as a bird, her eyes sparking with amusement as she watched the antics of the Elflings before her. Just now, a small Elf lad was hurrying near, half hopping in his haste as he offered her an amusing attempt at a bow, and lay a small bouquet of flowers upon her knees.

She smiled and thanked him, accepting his gift, and the boy blushed, scampering away to his smiling mother to hide his reddened face in her skirts.

Galadriel glanced up then, and at Elrohir's appearance, her gaze alighted with joyful welcome.

"Ah, Elrohir." Galadriel breathed warmly, rising gracefully from her seat, to come forward and embrace him, her fair head tucking against his shoulder for a moment before she drew back, and smiled up at him. "I am glad to see you safe."

"My lord, Elrohir." Haldir called out, finally noticing the two Elf lords standing near, and he rose, his hand gently drawing up his lady beside him as well. Lothirien smiled in welcome as she stood, and Elrohir did not miss the subtle brush of her hand across her yet narrow stomach. Haldir eyed the younger Elf a moment before his mouth lightly smirked, and he asked, "Your journey was uneventful, I trust?"

"I fear my journey _was_ rather uneventful, my lord, Haldir. Dreadfully tedious." Elrohir muttered straight faced. "I did meet a host of orcs. But of course, I slew them all with great ease, which of course, should be no surprise to you. It was all I could do, to keep myself from falling asleep in the saddle."

There was silence between the small group for a moment, before a muffled laugh broke past Elrohir's lips. At this, Celeborn bowed his head, shaking it as he fought back a subdued chuckle. The ladies glanced at one another and smirked, and Haldir grinned before he came forward to clasped Elrohir's arm companionably, and nodded toward the center of the glade.

"Here is the maiden, Nimrodel." Haldir said, his voice growing somewhat sad at Elrohir's shoulder. "Or so we will call her until her memory returns."

Elrohir followed his gaze across the glade, his brow furrowing in wonder as his eyes lighted upon the same young woman he had noticed earlier. Then she was not the little Elfling's own mother?

"She loves the company of the small ones, especially the infants," Lothirien murmured as an explanation, seeing the question upon Elrohir's face. "With them, she seems the most at ease. Though she never speaks, even to them. Except to repeat the name of Lord Glorfindel. His name is all she ever says."

"And you have seen nothing as to who she can be, or who her kin are?" Elrohir asked his grandmother, to which Galadriel sadly shook her head.

"That is lost to my sight." She sighed, her soft frown fading to a smile as she clutched Elrohir's hand, and pulled him forward. "But come. Your face I did see, and though what it may portend, I cannot yet know, I sense, somehow, that you are the one to draw her memories out."

"I know only a portion of the healing arts that my father knows-," Elrohir muttered softly, running his palms, which were suddenly damp, against the hem of his tunic.

"But this maiden somehow needs you." Galadriel assured him, smiling a gentle, secretive smile before she turned and called gently, "Nimrodel?"

The maiden lifted her head, and glanced in their direction as Galadriel's silver voice echoed across the glade. And his heart stopped upon a beat within his chest as her gaze found Elrohir's for the first time. Her own eyes shot open in a gesture of sudden surprise, and remained upon him as the sleeping infant's mother came forward to claim her baby, whom the maiden carefully handed over as she rose to her feet, her eyes ever unmoving from Elrohir's. She came forward at a slow pace brushing lightly through the grass, past the frolicking Elflings, her eyes fixed unblinking upon no other but Elrohir, as if she were entranced.

"Here is a new friend, dear Nimrodel," Lothirien cooed softly, drawing near her as the maiden came near, and Lothirien took the girl's hand within her own, as if she were an Elfling. "He is here to help you."

The girl gulped hard, trading a swift, pleading glance with Lothirien before her eyes turned again upon Elrohir. Her free hand lay heavily against the skirt of the white dress she wore, a borrowed one, Elrohir realized now, for it was loose upon her slender, young body.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, lady Nimrodel." Elrohir murmured. He offered her a small bow, and stepped softly toward her, smiling into her wide eyes that watched him, unwavering, unblinking.

The girl sighed at this, drew her hand from Lothirien's, came a step closer to him, and breathed in a light, airy voice, "Eärendil?"


	28. Chapter 27

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 27**

**October 21, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 27

_Eärendil_? Elrohir wondered to himself. But had they not said it was Glorfindel's name she spoke?

Beside the young maiden, Lothirien gave a soft gasp and traded a look of surprise with her husband. Celeborn cleared his throat softly.

"That is the first time she has said more than the name of Lord Glorfindel," Lothirien murmured in quiet surprise. "I do not understand-,"

"My little Eärendil?" The maiden muttered again, at which they all fell silent. Within the glade, the young ones continued to laugh and sing and canter about, yet in his ears, their sound grew faded and muted as Elrohir gazed long into the maiden's deep eyes. She spoke with a strange twist of her words, as of one whose people had been long sundered from their kin.

She reached out, and clasped his hand, large and tanned beneath the grip of her slender, white fingers. Her hand was thin and smooth, her grip tight in spite of its seeming frailty. Elrohir glanced down into her face, his eyes focused upon her wide gaze. Why was she speaking the name of his grandfather as if Eärendil were known to her, and dear in her heart? How could she have ever known him? For Eärendil had long before passed with Elwing beyond the boundaries of Arda, centuries before this maiden could ever have been born.

A soft, muffled sob caught in her throat as the girl looked upon their clasped hands. And fearing that he had frightened her, Elrohir moved to pull back before the girl lunged forward suddenly, and threw her slender arms about his neck.

With startled eyes, Elrohir shot a glance at his grandmother over the maiden's shoulder, but Galadriel merely smiled and nodded as if in approval.

"I lost you." The girl sobbed, her face pressed softly against his neck, her tears damp against his flesh. And Elrohir found himself circling his own arms about her narrow waist, and holding her tightly, as well. "I have been searching, for so very long. My little Eärendil." She drew back to look up, gazing long into his eyes, her own shining brightly with tears.

Her face was close to his, her breath that brushed across his face, was quick and cool. "But at last, after so much despair, I have found you," she whispered in a voice that he alone could hear. And then, once again, she buried her face against his neck, and sighed, a soft contented sigh that tingled over his flesh. His previous surprise at her sudden embrace softly faded away, and he felt somehow at home with this young, fragile maiden. A strange stirring within him moved through his blood as he held her, a new sensation, sweeter and more ethereal than the compassion and the pity he also felt, woven through it, as the threads of a bright tapestry. Yet he had only begun to wonder at what it might portend, when she pushed back suddenly to look up into his eyes, her cheeks wet with tears.

"How long have I been gone?" She asked raggedly. "It is all a blur to me now. But you have grown so. Oh, the black treachery of Maeglin! He betrayed me! He betrayed us all!"

"My lady, do not fear, you are safe now," Elrohir soothed. He reached out, grasping her thin arms within his hands. Like slender sticks they were, and he feared to hold her too tightly, lest he might damage her. To him, Maeglin, the betrayer of Gondolin, was a dark character, faithless and twisted, though no more than a name on a page. Yet this maiden, of no greater years than Lalaith, spoke of him as if she knew him. As if she had been the one he had betrayed. But she couldn't have been. Doubtless her mind had been battered by the unnamable tortures the orcs had put her through.

"You have suffered much," he breathed softly, and his hold upon her arms loosened, as his fingers slid down her thin arms, and clasped her hands. "But upon my honor, you will suffer no more."

At his words, she sighed, her eyes softening, and growing warm with gratitude. "Now you are the one caring for me. As I cared for you, long ago when you were small." She murmured, her words broken with the remnants of her tears as she returned the gentle squeeze of his hands. "How strange a thing it is, and yet how comforting, also."

"Do you remember your kin, lady?" Elrohir urged gently, saddened that such nonsensical ramblings would spill so blithely from her lips. How battered and abused her mind must be! "Where is your home?"

"Gondolin-," she murmured, searching his face with timid questions. "But do you not remember? How old are you now Eärendil?" She queried. "You are grown. But I know you, still."

"My lady," Elrohir softly protested at last, "I am not-,"

_Do not tell her that she is mistaken, my grandson. _The gentle, though urgent words invaded his thoughts, and Elrohir glanced up into his grandmother's eyes. Galadriel's eyes were trained keenly upon him._ Not yet. For her fragile heart is not yet prepared for the fullness of the truth. Tell her only that Gondolin has fallen. _

Elrohir nodded to his grandmother, and changed his words.

"Forgive me, my lady," he sighed his gaze going once again to the maiden's troubled eyes, "but Gondolin is no more."

"Ai," she choked, her eyes dimming with a deep and bitter grief that pained him to see, though his heart warmed that she should shrink closer to him as if for comfort. "Our fair valley? Gone?"

"And what of your kin, lady?" Elrohir gently asked, though his heart wrenched with sympathy at the fresh grief within her eyes. His hand absently trailed over her back in a gesture of comfort. "Where do they dwell?"

A confused look passed over her face and she drew in a ragged sigh. "Your mother, the lady Idril. She was as a sister to me, and I had-," her voice faded.

Elrohir shot a questioning glance at his grandmother, but Galadriel offered him no more than a simple nod.

He pursed his lips softly, and then, as he watched the maiden's pleading eyes, he murmured, "How do you know Lord Glorfindel, my lady?"

In the space of a moment, a bright flash lit her eyes at the name, and just as quickly faded away, and her face once again, fell. She opened her mouth. "Glorfindel," she breathed softly, almost absently, as she drew in a shuddering sigh, and said no more.

"Until these past moments, you have said no other name but the name of Lord Glorfindel," Elrohir urged softly. "Do you do not know him?"

Several tears fell from her lashes to her cheeks at this, and she shook her head, her face written with sorrow and confusion. "Nothing I remember as I should. His face I see, as through a deep fog. All of Gondolin, all that I loved, is as a faded dream." She sighed with a shudder, and her brow furrowed tightly as if she struggled to recall memories long buried. "And you, my Eärendil." A soft blush touched her cheeks as she murmured, "Even you have-, changed."

A short breath caught painfully in her lungs, and she sniffed as more tears trickled from her eyes. "Nothing is as it once was."

"You need not cry." He soothed gently, and he smiled as a warm urge of tender affection for this lost and lonely maiden stole over his heart. So natural a thing it seemed to him, that he did not care that he had not met her before this moment. "Lord Glorfindel is known to me. He is my friend, a trusted advisor to my father," Elrohir soothed as he traded a look with his grandmother to which Galadriel smiled and nodded. "Perhaps he may help you remember the truth of your past better than I. And when the world is safe again, I will take you to him, fair Nimrodel. If you wish it."

A shuddering sigh broke past her lips at these words, and a new light of bright hope entered her eyes. She sniffed, and looked up into his eyes, studying the contours of his face with a keen gaze.

Her eyes were blue, Elrohir noted, a deep, fathomless blue. Like shining sapphires, but warmer, and brighter.

"I do wish it. But surely you remember my true name." She murmured, her brow twitching slightly as if she sensed the same emotion that tugged with warm urgency upon his heart. She drew back from him a pace. "Surely you remember me?"

"It has been many years since Gondolin fell. Will you not tell me again? " he urged gently, trading yet another quick glance with his grandmother who offered him a slender smile, and a soft nod.

"Very well." she murmured, dropping in a shallow curtsey, as a smile, warming Elrohir like a ray of sunshine, came at last to the soft curve of her fair, pink mouth, "My name, my dearest Lord Eärendil, is Calassë."


	29. Chapter 28

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 28**

**November 7, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 28

The day was grey and somber, and a thick mist hung over the fields far below them obscuring distant Osgiliath in a somber fog that doubtless allowed barely more than an inkling of light through the haze. The sky was overcast above them as well but it did not smell of coming rain. The air was dry, smelling of distant ash and laced with a touch of bitter brimstone as Lalaith only half listening to the wizard, followed behind him and Pippin who scuttled along upon the tail of the wizard as the three of them hurried through the maze of streets and tunnels of Minas Tirith. His words after all, were directed at the Hobbit. Lalaith's eyes were fixed about her, upon the faces of the mortals they passed, and at the brave city that seemed to wait in patient mourning along with its children, for the doom that was coming. Her eyes especially were drawn to the high pinnacle of stone upon the mountain above the city, higher even than the silver tower of Ecthelion. She could see a pair of soldiers guarding the mound of wood and tinder that had been stacked up there at the beacon, for the time when Denethor would call for its lighting. She shook her head to herself. That such mortals could dare to be up there, made her knees quiver.

"Peregrin Took my lad, there is a task now to be done." Gandalf was muttering as he, with Pippin on his heels, passed into a narrow alley, edged by carts and baskets of vegetables and fruits, doubtless hoarded there in preparation for the coming dread that Mordor threatened. Lalaith followed behind, flashing a small smile at a mother and her baby who stood in a shadowed doorway watching their passing. The baby's eyes were large and curious in its plump little face, while the mother's were filled with worry and sorrowful fear.

At Lalaith's smile, the woman gave a terse nod, and looked away as Lalaith ducked into the alley behind the Hobbit and Wizard, wondering now why Gandalf had asked her to wear her traveling clothes. He still had not given her any profoundly difficult task that would require the wearing of breeches and her light Elven cloak, rather than a dress. He was still speaking to Pippin.

"Another opportunity for one of the Shire-folk to prove their great worth." Gandalf added as Pippin and Lalaith came squeezing past carts and baskets behind him, and the alleyway bent and widened into a small cluster of stone walls cut into the high cliff face that rose above them. Their little nook was void of any of the worried faces of the Gondorians they had left moments ago, and the three of them were alone.

"Do you see the beacon upon that high pinnacle?" Gandalf queried, his eyes bearing a look of heavy concern rested upon his two companions as he gestured with his head to the high rock above them.

"Mm," Pippin nodded, and Lalaith drew in a breath, nodding as well, wondering what task Gandalf would now appoint to the small Hobbit.

"The beacon must be lit, if this the sun of this world is ever to rise beyond the coming shadow."

Pippin gulped and nodded, and Lalaith glanced at the determined expression that was setting upon the small Hobbit's face. She guessed now at what Gandalf meant to ask of him, and her hand lifted, setting upon Pippin's shoulder as a gesture of encouragement.

"You must climb to the beacon, Peregrin, my lad." Gandalf continued, his eyes flitting now and again to Lalaith as Pippin gulped, and snatched at Lalaith's hand holding it as if seeking for comfort. "There is a basin of oil and a small ever burning lamp suspended above the piled wood. You must pour the oil upon the kindling and then set it to fire with the lamp."

Pippin nodded wordlessly.

"And you must not be seen." Gandalf finished, his eyes focusing hard now upon Pippin, now upon Lalaith, lending a look of utmost importance to his words. "You cannot take the path. You must climb the rock face itself."

Pippin gulped hard it this, but again nodded with no word of question or complaint.

"Now Lalaith, see to it that he does not fall." Gandalf added with barely a breath as he rose, his gaze now fixing unmoving upon the Elf maiden as he withdrew a length of coiled rope from beneath his robe that she had not noticed before this moment, and handed it to Pippin.

"Watch his every move." The wizard continued urgently as if he did not notice the look of cold horror that had come over Lalaith's face. "Do not let him make a misstep. The future of all this Middle Earth rests upon you both."

She hardly heard his words, for a sickening dread had cast itself like a heavy pall over her heart. Gandalf expected her to climb that great cliff? Surely not? He had known since she was a child how deathly fearful she was of such things.

Lalaith had always known at the fore of her mind, that such fear had no true place in her, for she was as lithe of foot as any other Elf. But the terror branded upon her heart at the memory of the river of boiling lava deep in the abyss beneath the bridge that had passed from Barad-Dur had never been entirely defeated. Surely Gandalf knew that? Surely he knew she would be of no use to Pippin? If anything, in her fear, she would lose her grip and fall, dragging the helpless Hobbit with her.

"Mithrandir?" she managed to mutter in a soft, pleading voice, to which the wizard's eyes softened ever so slightly.

"Ah, my dear Lalaith." Gandalf sighed gently in the softened tongue of the Elves, leaning upon his staff, and surveying her with the patience of a gentle father. "You know in your heart that you can do this." His eyes softened sympathetically. "The doubts that linger in your heart, are no more than lies. To heed them, is to let evil defeat you. And you are too strong to allow that. Think not of the cliff, but of what you must do." He smiled again as Lalaith lifted her eyes to the high stone pinnacle, and squeezed her shoulder so that she glanced once again at the wizard.

His words seemed to infuse her with a newfound energy, and she stepped back, nodding quickly. The fear had not entirely passed away, but a spark of courage had taken light in the midst of the black shadows of her fear.

Taking up the free end of the rope that Pippin had tied about his waist as the wizard had talked, she bound it now swiftly about her own waist as Gandalf let out a satisfied breath, and smiled proudly.

""You must not fail me." The wizard urged to the two of them, and with a quick nervous smile at one another, Lalaith and Pippin hurried away from Gandalf, Pippin scampering ahead, up a low set of stone steps to the base of the high wall of stone.

Without pause, the brave young Hobbit started up, catching at the ragged cracks upon the face of the rock as he went.

Lalaith gulped hard as she followed him with her eyes up the climbing pinnacle, and a black cloud of fear began again, against her will, to roll over her heart.

She glanced back once at Gandalf who stood watching them, and the wizard smiled. _Think not of the cliff, but of what you must do_. His words echoed in her mind.

_Light the beacon._ She murmured in her mind. _Bring Théoden, and the Rohirrim to Gondor's aid._ _For without their coming_-,

She thought of the woman she had seen moments ago, with the small baby in her arms. She glanced up at Pippin, whose Elvish cloaked dangled behind him as he clambered for another handhold, and with that she drew in a ragged sigh, she caught a ragged lip of rock in her hands, and setting her boot in a low crevice, she hoisted herself off of the level stone of the alleyway, and began slowly to climb upward.


	30. Chapter 29

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 29**

**November 21, 2004**

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Chapter 29

The wind was brisk and cold here upon the high wall of the cliff where Pippin and Lalaith clung to the cracks and crevices of the mountain, inching ever closer to their goal. The air was cleaner here at least, Lalaith admitted to herself, keeping her eyes fixed upon the cold grey stone in front of her face as the brisk wind caught at her Elven cloak and her hair that she had not braided back.

Neither spoke, but Pippin, climbing the rock above her, was breathing hard. He was nervous, Lalaith sensed, and for his sake, she could not let him see her own fear. Inching upward, she found another jutting crag of rock, and gripped it hard, hoisting herself upward below the young Hobbit. She did not dare to look down. She would not let herself even think of doing that. She only focused upon her next step as she shoved her foot into a ragged crack upon the wall and drew another fraction upward. How much further-,

"Lalaith, here we are!" Pippin whispered fiercely.

She jerked her head upward, surprised to see a clear ledge above her, and the stone pergola that sheltered the stacks of wood and kindling waiting to be set afire.

Pippin grinned down at her, though it was a tense smile, and his eyes flashed over the valley that she knew stretched below her. His face drained of all healthy color then, taking on a decided shade of green as his wide eyes dilated unevenly. He shut his eyes and gulped hard, hugging tightly to the corner of the rock where he was perched.

"Lalaith-," he muttered his voice hardly his own, and he tettered on his precarious perch for a moment.

Lalaith's limbs stiffened at this, and suddenly forgetting how high she was, scampered lightly up the wall with the inborn ease of a young Elfling until she balanced upon the cliff at Pippin's shoulder.

"Pippin, don't worry," she urged, clapping one hand upon the shoulder of the dizzy Hobbit, and jostling him until he opened his eyes and gazed into hers, his head still lolling about heavily.

"O-, oooh, Lalaith," Pippin groaned, his gaze sneeking past her and downward toward the white tower of Ecthelion below them, and to the Pelennor fields that she did not doubt stretched out impossibly far in the valley below, "I'm not sure I can-,"

"Pippin," she growled "look at me. Look at me!" and the wide eyes of the Hobbit complied.

"Think only of what you _must_ do, not of how high we have climbed. We are not far from our goal. The ledge is just above us-,"

"That's easy for you to say!" Pippin whined. "You're an Elf. It is impossible for _you_ to fall!"

Lalaith smiled at this, and shook her head softly before she murmured, "And you will not fall either, Pippin. I will not let you. Now go on."

The young Hobbit gulped hard at this, and nodded, scrambling up the last few feet of cliffside, and Lalaith watched him go, giving his last furry foot an extra shove as the Hobbit finally reached the stone terrace where the unlit beacon waited. Lalaith slowly followed after the Hobbit who ducked behind the far end of the pyre peeking from beyond the corner at something that was not yet in her sight. She was glad for the sight of level stone, and the unlit pyre, rafts of ragged edged branches lashed together, and stack one upon the other, with mounds of straw shoved in between to give greater ease to the beacon's lighting. But when the sight of the two young armored guards came into her view, she ducked back down again.

Glancing up into Pippin's eyes, she saw his understanding. He was small enough that he could stay the more easily hidden. But if she joined him, she might be seen. Yet he needed to climb the pyre to light it, and the rope between them would not allow enough slack. The Hobbit teased the tangled knot of the rope at his waist before he glanced at Lalaith who peered at him over the ledge of rock, and offered her a helpless look and a shrug, indicating rapidly that she untie her end.

Lalaith sighed silently, and wordlessly complied, slipping the knot undone, and unwinding it from her waist. She watched from her perch beneath the edge of the terrace, her eyes peeking over the ledge as Pippin, trailing the rope behind him like a little mouse's tail, scrambled up the ragged corner of the pyre.

She flinched as Pippin reached the top. She could see, through a narrow space between the far stone pillar and the edge of the pyre the two soldiers together. One was sitting, handing the other a small wooden vessel. Their voices were too soft to hear. If even one of them looked over here now, he would see Pippin-,

Lalaith stifled a sudden gasp in her throat at what seemed a loud snap above her as of a breaking rope, followed by a noisome splash. What was Pippin doing? The sound had seemed to her loud enough to alert the whole valley below them. But the soldiers seemed not to hear.

Another clatter followed by a soft puff, as of a flame igniting, caused a leap of gladness in her heart. Pippin had tossed the lamp into the kindling, and now the pyre was alight! But only a moment later, her cheer was stifled at the sudden flames that licked upward from the peak of the pyre. Pippin was still up there! She saw him now, stumble to the corner of the pyre that was now leaping with flames, and in his hurry, he slipped and tumbled backward, and with a small muffled cry, fell outward into space. Lalaith's heart in a wild urge to deny the horror of what she was seeing, seemed to stop within her breast.

Downward Pippin seemed to float through the air as time contracted painfully about Lalaith. His face written with a look not of fear but of pleading question caught her eye as he fell past. He was not so afraid as he was simply expectant. He believed she would save him. But in her own fear, could she? Clinging to the cold face of the rock, bound in the bonds of her own crippling anxiety?

In the splintered moments that seemed ages she remembered a time as a child nearing her fortieth year when she had climbed a tree on a dare from Elrohir, and in her aching fear of heights, she had not the courage to let go of the branches within the topmost trees and climb down again. It was not until Elrohir, in his guilt, had led his father and Mithrandir who had come to visit their sheltered valley to the place where the child sat high in the trees that she was able to find the courage to climb down once again. The gentle words of the wizard and her uncle had at last coaxed her down, guiding her all the way as she came until she found herself safe in Elrond's arms while her uncle gave his son a cold, silent glare over her shivering shoulder as the wizard gave the young Elf lord a stern reprimand. But neither of them were here now. Her uncle was in the distant vale of Imladris, her home that seemed almost a mere memory now, and Gandalf was down in the city.

_My child, the power is in you, to defeat this fear. It has always been in you. The life of one of Iluvatar's dear children rests within your hands._ The voice in her mind was calm and steadying, and Lalaith knew, within the core of her being, that her mother's voice spoke the truth. Her fear was only there by Sauron's making. And dear Pippin, her ever faithful friend and comforter-, she could not let him be dashed upon the ragged rocks below.

Crushing her fear beneath a cry of determination, Lalaith jammed one fist into a narrowed crevace, and with both feet and her free hand, pushed away from the wall of stone, and swung in a wide arch out into the cold space of air, and caught in her straining fingertips, the frayed end of the rope as it fluttered past.

Her back crashed gracelessly into the wall of ragged stone, and Pippin grunted in discomfort as his weight yanked hard upon the drawn rope around his midsection as her head snapped against the cruel rock, stars flickering before her vision. The little Hobbit's little body hit the ragged stone cliff below her with a rough thump and he grunted with discomfort and moaned softly as he swung slightly outward into space, his solid Hobbit weight ripping mercilessly through Lalaith's taut arms. The rope slipped, slithered with a hiss through her clenched fist, and Pippin, falling again, gasped fearfully as Lalaith strained to twine what was left of the rope, around her straining hand, heedless of the numbing ache that the rough hempen blade of the rope lashed across her palm and her now whitened fingers. Her fingertips above her head, jammed in the crack of stone, were cold and numb as well as they carried both her weight, as well as Pippin's, while her body twisted outward, flailing over empty air. And in this precarious position, her gaze was drawn unwillingly to the valley below her. The silver tower of Ecthelion rose above the highest tier of the city far below her, and beyond that, stretching outward into the mists that had cleared back from Minas Tirith, though they still obscured Osgiliath, were the brown Pelennor fields. Infinitely below her they seemed to fall, and wide into the fog hazed distance they stretched. For a moment, an image flashed in her mind of a wide chasm plunging down into the heart of the earth, edged with cliffs of black cruel stone as flickering waves of undulating heat lapped up at her, a river of cruel boiling lava in the deep distance, seething between the charred cavernous walls.

But then a breath of cool air upon her face seemed to sooth away the wretched memory, and she found herself again hanging upon the cliff face, Pippin's weight dangling from the rope in one hand her other hand stubbornly clinging to a ragged handhold above her, though the muscles in her hand and fingers burned with the effort.

"Lalaith, it's alright, hold on," Pippin called below her, breathless and shaking, but otherwise uninjured. "Here, let me-, ah, there."

The heavy burden of his weight finally eased, and glancing below her, Lalaith could see that he had kicked himself about until he once again caught hold of the ragged cliff wall with his hands, and his bare little feet. Valar bless the sturdy little Hobbit! He hardly seemed to have had the air knocked out of him.

The weight at last mercifully relieved, Lalaith twisted herself, rolling over the cliff face until her rope twined hand found a jutting projection of stone to grasp onto, and her feet found firm pockets within the rocky cracks upon the wall, mercifully easing the burning pain that had knifed through the muscles of her arms from which her own weight along with that of Pippin's had hung for so many long agonizing moments. She drew in a ragged breath, and buried her face against the cold rock, finding herself trembling violently now. Her spent adrenaline, coupled with the knowledge that she had barely saved Pippin from a dreadful death, shuddered through her, and she now faced fully the realization of what she had done. She had snatched Pippin out of the very jaws of death itself in spite of her own terror. Never before had she believed she could ever defeat such an overwhelming fear. But somehow, she had.

And as she clung to the cliff face, regaining her breath, the quiet knowledge stole over her heart that one more step had been taken in her defeat of Sauron's cruelty to her long ago. One more step that would have never been taken had she never left Imladris with Legolas and the rest of the Fellowship.

But she had not fully defeated Sauron. Not yet. For Sauron's evil still endured, that black binding power that had tried to destroy her so many centuries before. And she had as yet to face him fully. To look into the very eye of the dark lord, and not fear him. She had yet to do this, to face the full of his evil and yet know without question that the power that lived behind her was greater than anything Sauron could ever possess. But that time would come. Of that, she did not doubt.

"Lalaith, you alright?" Pippin called from below her.

Above them, she became aware of the roaring conflagration as the beacon Pippin had set afire grew in might, licking up and around the shelter of its stone roof.

Twisting her head, Lalaith gazed at the white peak of Amon Dîn across the deep brown valley beneath her. And as a distant yellow glow at its peak sparked and grew, licking upward into the somber grey clouds that roiled across the sky, she smiled.

Her smile grew to a full grin, and slowly, her trembling eased, and the ache within her arms. The beacons were lit. The Rohirrim would come, and Legolas with them.

"Lalaith?" Pippin called again, his voice rising in concern.

"I am better now, Pippin." She called down, almost cheerfully now, glancing over her shoulder. "Come, let's go back down to Gandalf."

And with that, the two friends began to make their way steadily and cautiously down the cold, windswept cliff face, back the way they had come.


	31. Chapter 30

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 30**

**December 23, 2004**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 30

The steady glow of the lamp within a sconce upon the wall touched off the small stone carving Galadriel held in one hand, the figures of an Elf man and maiden, standing together.

The carven lady stood with her back to her lover though she was half turning to him in a gesture of concerned devotion as her hand covered his own where it rested upon her shoulder. Her other hand was twined within his beside them, their fingers woven together. Her face was partially lifted to his, his own bending downward toward hers, the pair frozen eternally, never to share the tender kiss they both longed for.

_Dear Amroth, and sweet little Nimrodel._

Fluidly, Galadriel replaced the carven image upon her bedside table, and straightened again where she sat upon the edge of her wide bed.

Such dark thoughts, she chided herself. Though their own sojourns upon this grieving land had ended bitterly for both of them, the dear children were together in the Blessed Realm, now. That was what mattered. But oh, would she for herself ever lay eyes upon the Blessed Realm again, and upon those she loved who dwelt there? Would the Valar ever forgive her willfulness?

With this thought, she could not help but draw in and release a trembling sigh at the deep and heavy weariness that lay ever upon her heart, and she shivered, her thin sleeping gown not enough to keep out the chill that laced itself through her blood.

At the sound, the bedclothes stirred softly behind her, and a moment later, she felt a warm hand upon her shoulder, running gently along the soft flesh of her arm.

"Alatariel," Celeborn whispered in the soft tones that even now, stirred her blood. "What is it?

At his voice, Galadriel turned, and gazed plaintively upon her lord.

Celeborn, etched in silver light, lay turned toward her upon the pillows, watching her through eyes that were at once both piercing and gentle. His unbound hair rested about his chiseled face like a silver mane, and he smiled as her eyes found his. He wore naught but a loose pair of sleeping breeches, and as he lifted himself upon his elbow and leaned nearer to her, the muscles of his chest, and his flat corded stomach shifted softly beneath his skin like quiet ripples on the surface of a still pond. And for a moment, Galadriel forgot what it was that had woken her from an uneasy sleep.

"What troubles you?" he asked again, gently, his fingers continuing their soft caress.

"Our dear little Nimrodel," she answered at last, ducking her eyes. "Calassë, for that is her name, though I knew it not before."

At these quiet, troubled words, Celeborn sat up, and drew himself nearer to her, circling his muscled arms about her slender waist, and tucking his firm jaw against her loose hair, released a low, contented sigh.

At his touch, Galadriel's form gradually relaxed, and she eased gratefully against him, feeling the gentle tightening of his arms about her, and the steady beating of his heart through the firm warmth of his chest pressed against her back. She turned her head slightly, sighing her thanks against his bare neck. How grateful she was for this beautiful, majestic lord, whose heart was in her keeping.

Before her people, she ever bore herself tirelessly, ever wise and unafraid. Even before Elrond and the grandchildren, she still retained a posture of ancient wisdom and power that often, of herself, she did not feel. Yet with Celeborn, her lord, her friend, and her lover, she knew she could speak her fears and her pains, and he would not fault her, nor think her weak.

"I can see nothing of her past," Galadriel murmured sorrowfully. "All is darkness to me. Why can I not see? What blocks my sight? Would that I could see, for she has become as dear as a daughter to me."

Galadriel sighed wearily again, to which Celeborn drew her closer, and smoothing the weight of her hair softly aside with one hand, he bent his head and brushed a lingering kiss upon the soft flesh of her throat.

"You are the strongest, wisest woman I have ever known," he murmured. "In time, you will know. Why she seems not even the age of Lalaith, yet speaks of Gondolin as if she knows it. Perhaps she will remember, or perhaps it will be revealed to you. Somehow, the light will come."

Galadriel breathed, "All I know now, is that she is frail and bruised, both her heart and her body. And that Elrohir has some part to play in her return to who she was before, though what part is his, I cannot yet see. How much misery she has been through-,"

"She is here, safe now," Celeborn returned softly, lifting his head and nuzzling the tresses of her hair gently. "And she will not come to harm again. Elrohir will see to it." A slight smile entered his voice as he added, "Maddening as the lad can be at times, his loyalties are strong."

Galadriel sighed, and closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of her lord's embrace. "Indeed," she agreed quietly. "His heart is true and noble. The maiden who wins his love, will be blessed indeed."

She smiled pertly at this thought, and lifting her face toward her lord's, softly breathed, "As am I-,"

Her voice grew silent as Celeborn smiled, and drew near, the fragrant, musky scent of him washing over her as his hands cupped her face, and he kissed her, plying her parted lips with tender skill, as warm and as ardent as any youthful lover.

There was no further need for words.

…

"_Do not let him go! Do not let Maeglin take Eärendil away!_"

The wild scream, full of terror and grief brought Elrohir thrashing awake from his weary dreams upon a divan in the forechamber of his grandparent's spacious flet. The book he had been reading before he had dropped to sleep, fell with a thump to the floor, but he barely noticed. For the sound of wild grief filled weeping followed swiftly upon the frightened cry. And he scrambled to his feet, stumbling through the silver darkness of the room and down a curved set of fluted steps to a doorway that led into a small room perched upon a lower branch. Calassë's room, where beyond the door, the weeping, wild and fraught with grief, continued, unabated.

"Calassë," he cried, bursting through the door, tumbling in his haste to his knees beside the bed where the maiden thrashed wildly from one side to the other. Her thin nightgown was knotted about her bare, slender legs, and her bedclothes rumpled and twisted about her as she sobbed in her dreams, her eyes dim and unseeing staring up at the ceiling, filled with hopeless, bitter tears.

"Lady Calassë, wake up!" he cried, catching her by her thin shoulders. The damp of her cold sweat moistened his hands even through the cloth of her sleeping gown as he jostled her. And at last, her weeping weakened, her eyes fluttered, and brightened, and came to rest upon him.

"_Ai_," she breathed, glancing down at herself, at her sweat moistened nightdress, and the knotted sheets twisted and tortured about and beneath her.

"It was no more than a dream," she gasped, clutching her knotted blanket against herself, and turning her eyes to his, deep and pleading as she studied his face where he knelt at her side. "Eärendil," she breathed, then glanced away to the end of the bed where a small blanket lay woven through as if with the light of silver stars. Draped over the footboard, it had remained untouched in spite of her thrashing. The blanket she had been carrying when Haldir and his lady had found her, Elrohir remembered, the only clue as to who she could be. And without a word, sensing that the touch of it would bring her comfort, he reached for it.

The cloth was cool and soft to the touch, glitting softly as his fingers closed over it, recalling to his mind, the spark of stars in the night sky. And with a smile, he delivered into her hands, relishing the look of quiet gratitude in her eyes as she took it from him, and lifted her face to his.

"Eärendil, you are safe," she sighed clutching the small blanket to herself with one hand and touching her other against his smooth jaw. At this, she fell forward, almost limply, her forehead against his shoulder as she muttered, "You are safe, Eärendil. I had feared Maeglin would kill you, for no more than being the son of Tuor, and not his own. Maeglin did not hurt you?"

"Maeglin did not hurt me," Elrohir echoed, his hands trailing along her arms in a comforting gesture as her golden head sagged upon his shoulder. "The lord Tuor slew him during the attack upon Gondolin. Lady Idril and-, her son were saved."

Calassë sighed at this, and then as before but more softly now, she began to weep again, straining closer to Elrohir for comfort. "Maeglin," she muttered, her grief muted and low. "He died then?"

Elrohir nodded mutely, his brow furrowing. Calassë did not know it? Every child tutored on the fall of Gondolin knew that Tuor had cast his foe from the slopes of Amon Gwareth, and that Maeglin had perished in the flames of his own betrayal.

"Maeglin, Maeglin," Calassë wept pitifully, burrowing weakly against Elrohir's neck. He drew her closer, pressing his jaw against her brow, heedless of the hot tears that washed his flesh, and the cloth of his tunic. "I thought he loved me," Calassë whimpered, "and I once thought that I loved him, and could never be happy if I could not possess him. Such a fool I was! He never loved me. What desires he possessed were lustful and vile, and set upon Lady Idril. And his heart was as stone. Yet if I were to have learned of all of this without you here beside me, of Gondolin's fall, and of Maeglin's death, treacherous as he was, I would weep forever, I think, as one with Lady Nienna. Only knowing that you, my Eärendil, are safe now, gives me cause to hope for a future with joy in it."

"_Ai_, Calassë," Elrohir heard himself breath softly. He touched a hand to her cool, sweat dampened tresses as she shuddered against him. What blindly maddening dreams was she yet enduring? None of this that she was speaking could be so! She had never known Maeglin, nor Eärendil. She had never been in Gondolin. She was far too young for any of this to possibly be near the truth. When would she remember?

"Until you are ready for the truth, I will be whomever you wish me to be, if only it will dry your tears," he murmured, and his heart gave a fierce throb at the oath. For in spite of his grandmother's charge that he not reveal his true identity until the maiden was ready, his heart still bore an odd pain. A strange sadness that simmered within him when his mind dwelt long upon the understanding that Calassë truly thought him to be another. And he uttered a hurried prayer to the Valar that her darkness would soon pass, and that when she knew him at last for who he was, she would forgive him his deception.

Her head lifted, and her weeping, reddened eyes focused upon his almost as if she sensed his thoughts and his doubts. And in her eyes, he perceived her forgiveness already.

"But my dear one," she sniffed, her questioning eyes searching his. "Do not think that I wish you to be any other than who you are. One in whose veins flows the noble blood of both Elves and Men." She sighed, her brow furrowed, as her searching eyes, wet with the remnants of her tears, shone in the silver darkness of her room. "I can see the light of the lady Idril in your eyes, and the strength of the lord Tuor in your face-," she paused a long moment, her fingers brushing lightly over his jaw as she murmured softly in a thoughtful tone, "there is more, also-,"

Elrohir sighed low at her words and he trembled within and his heart quickened, though he remained submissive to her thorough yet gentle study of his features. At last she stirred within the circle of his arms and murmured, "And I am glad of what I see, for by it, you are _you_. And that is all I wish for you to be. No more or less."

At these words, a soft brush of warm hope touched Elrohir's heart, and he smiled. But Calassë did not. Her eyes fell, and she sighed a low, lonely breath.

"Forgive me," she muttered, her voice fraught with a vein of consternation as she released him, and drew back, falling wearily against her pillows, "Would that I were not so weak and fearful as a child-,"

"Fear not, Calassë. There is no shame in your tears, for you have been through much pain," Elrohir returned. "You are stronger than even I can know," he added warmly, catching her hand up, and running his fingers lightly over her own.

At his touch, the first inklings of a smile began to tug at the corners of her soft mouth. And Elrohir sat back and smiled as her brightened countenance washed his heart with light. What power this frail maiden held over him, he marveled. Never had he felt so strong, and yet so weak in the same moment! And all this because of a maiden's smile. What could such joyful confusion portend?

"My dear Nimrodel?" The voice of Elrohir's grandmother, breathless and worried, sounded near the door, and his thoughts left him as he glanced up and stood quickly as she brushed through the door.

Galadriel was clad in a silken dressing robe that trailed in waves behind her as she flew through the doorway, her breath coming in swift gasps as she dropped upon the edge of the bed, catching Calassë's hand that Elrohir had released, her face as fraught with worry as a mother's would be.

"_Ai_, but you are Calassë now," Galadriel soothed as she rubbed Calassë's hand in a comforting gesture, turning to smile up into the eyes of her lord Celeborn, who had come behind, more slowly than his lady. "Dear Calassë, so like our Celebrian was."

"How is she?" Celeborn queried in a gentle though drowsy voice, pausing in the doorway, running his fingers through his hair, and blinking heavy-eyed, his own robe cast sloppily about his broad shoulders.

Elrohir glanced at him, then turned his eyes away to hide a brief smirk. At another time, his naturally merry nature would have caused him to laugh outright at the mussed and rumpled sight of his sleepy grandfather, who at all other times, was so fastidious and precise.

But now, Elrohir's concern for Calassë outweighed all other trivialities, and he sighed, somber faced again as Calassë, in the voice of a penitent child called out, "Adda?"

How easily the child-like pet name had slipped from her mouth, Elrohir mused as Celeborn's eyes softened at the girl's plaintive voice. He made his way into the room, and seated himself beside his wife upon the edge of the maiden's bed.

"Adda, Nana, It was a nightmare," Calassë sniffed. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, young one," Celeborn said warmly, his voice reminding Elrohir of his own father's when he woke in the night from the tortured remnants of a black dream to find Elrond's patient smile above him.

"Indeed," Galadriel agreed, her hold upon Calassë's hand growing tighter. "We cannot think ill of you, now that you can speak of your pain. The evil that was done to you, is being drawn out of your wounded heart, like poison. You are healing."

"But I cannot remember any-, any evil," Calassë sighed plaintively. "I remembered nothing before the laughing stream, and the golden trees, and the fair lady Lothirien and her lord, Haldir who have become as a sister and as a brother to me. And not until dear Lord Eärendil came, could I remember anything else, save-," her words died, as a thoughtful look came into her eyes.

"Save the name of Lord Glorfindel," Galadriel soothed.

"In- indeed," Calassë agreed as a distant, hopeful look crossed her face, and then faded. "But now, I do not remember why. Though I do remember faces, dear and beloved, as if through a mist. And I remember Gondolin, when the evil came on the eve of the Gates of Summer. And when Maeglin took Lady Idril, and her dear baby, Eärendil away. Beyond that, until the stream, and the trees, there is nothing." Calassë glanced past Galadriel's shoulder, toward Elrohir, and smiled softly. "But my sweet Eärendil has come safe in spite of my fears, and I am glad, now, and unafraid of what I do not know."

At this, Galadriel sighed, but said nothing as she straightened the maiden's nightgown, and drew her tortured coverlet over her again, as if Calassë were a mere Elfling. And Celeborn, his eyes filled with a look of mute sympathy, glanced over his shoulder at Elrohir where he stood in the doorway.

Elrohir swallowed, and offered a brave smirk in return, his heart warming at the soft look of gratitude upon Calassë's face as Galadriel finished her task, and touched a hand once again to the maiden's cheek. Calassë was in all intent, a child of these woods now, dear to his grandparents and to all of the Galadhrim as if she were born among them, Elrohir mused. And it was well that she was, for until she remembered herself, she had no other kin.

But then Elrohir's thoughts froze as a faint premonition shivered through his veins. There _was_ something in her face that reminded Elrohir of someone he knew. His mind wondered on it a long moment before a soft thought unsure and tentative, murmured to his thoughts, _Ithilwen_? And though he was yet uncertain, his mind caught swiftly hold upon the name. Was this lost maiden perhaps akin to Lady Ithilwen of Mirkwood? Elrohir drew in a deep breath at the thought as a soft lullaby slipped from Galadriel's lips as she lulled the maiden to sleep like a child. And as Calassë smiled, her hair cast like a golden hallow across her pillow, her gaze growing dim and unfocused, Elrohir turned from the room, and made his way out.


	32. Chapter 31

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 31**

**February 11, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 31

Legolas stood quiet as a young tree beside one of the great carven pillars within the Golden Hall, watching the beams of light spilling in through the windows, as they trailed so slowly across the floor as the morning sun trailed across the sky. Flickering dust motes swirled through the golden trails of sunlight, and he lowered his eyes to the stone tiles beneath his feet. He was aware of the others in the hall, of King Théoden, and his ministers bent over a map near his throne, of the others of the court milling quietly about him, but his thoughts did not dwell here, in Rohan, but far away, across the mountains, in Gondor, in the city of Minas Tirith, upon the fairest of maidens ever to grace Arda. Picturing her fair face in his mind, her eyes, her smile, the feel of her embrace- a faint smile touched his lips.

Time indeed seemed to pass all the more slowly when Lalaith was not near him, Legolas acknowledged mutely to himself. He drew in a silent sigh, interrupted by a noisome harrumph at his elbow.

Turning his eyes upon Gimli, he noted the Dwarf's grin from beneath his matted beard as he drew near.

"Lalaith's alright, lad," the Dwarf muttered gruffly, though Legolas could detect a hint of warmth beneath it. "She's got Gandalf, and that young rascal Pippin. They'll watch over `er. No need to worry."

Legolas cast the Dwarf a small smirk, and clapped his hand upon Gimli's stout shoulder.

"Indeed, Gimli," he agreed softly. "Yet I cannot help but think of her. Would that I had a reason to go to where she is-,"

In that moment, the great doors of the hall, flew open with a clatter, and Aragorn staggered in with the bright light that burst through, breathless.

"The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit!" he cried as all eyes turned upon him, every glance grown fraught with anxious question as Aragorn's scrambled nearer to Théoden, his face written with anxious pleading.

"Gondor calls for aid," he gasped in a breathless voice.

Silence fell over the hall. A silence that grew more weighted with each passing second as all eyes turned upon the king of Rohan.

Legolas' heart felt the weight of the silence, for he understood well, Theoden's bitterness that the Rohirrim had been alone, bereft of allies when the orcs of Saruman had marched on them from Helm's Deep. What would his answer be? Éowyn, the king's niece, came brushing breathless, from another chamber to stand at her brother Éomer's side, her eyes upon her uncle, the king. Doubtless, she would be concerned for Lalaith as well, Legolas recalled, for the two of them had become friends during Lalaith's brief stay.

Long the moments seemed to pass, until at last Theoden drew in a deep breath.

"And Rohan will answer," he returned, his voice deep with surety.

"Muster the Rohirrim," the king called out, to which Éomer at his sister's side, offered a short bob of his head, and turned away as many of the other men of the hall did, as well.

A deep breath seemed to burst from Legolas' lungs at this.

A terse chuckle from his elbow turned his eyes once again upon Gimli, and the Dwarf punched his arm companion.

"Now," Gimli harumphed, "you have a reason." And as a distant echoing clang, began to echo outside, the signal summoning the warriors of Edoras, the Dwarf harrumphed importantly.

"Come on then, Legolas," he muttered, starting toward Aragorn who had turned to them now, offering the Elf and Dwarf a terse grin. "Let's go get Arod."

...

The wind was brisk and swift as Legolas cinched the saddle firmly, but not too tightly about Arod's cream white midsection. The spirited horse of Rohan seemed to sense the excitement about him, and was stuttering his hooves, and snorting anxiously.

"No bronadui, mellon nin," he murmured with a smile, moving to Arod's head, and catching the horse's chin gently within his hand. "Estent lû-,"

He smiled softly to himself as Arod snorted softly and the cream white horse pushed his nose into Legolas' shoulder as if in acknowledgement of what the Elf had said as Gimli came tromping near, and with an important huff, set the head of his axe upon the ground, and leaned heavily over the haft of it.

"What Elven nonsense are you muttering to him now?" he muttered.

Legolas merely chuckled lightly, and turned back to the horse's cream white face as he half listened to the soft clomp of another horse's hooves, Windfola, as the lady, Éowyn drew him out of the stables.

"Will you ride with us?" Aragorn, asked where he stood a short distance away, readying Brego, his own quiet surprise lacing his voice.

"Just to the encampment," Lady Éowyn returned, and Legolas quelled a soft grin at this. "It is tradition, for the women of the court to farewell the men."

Legolas could hear the strain in her voice, perhaps inaudible to the ears of Men, that hinted at her desire to ride beyond the encampment at Dunharrow. Perhaps to battle? Surely the king would not allow it. Glancing over Arod's neck, he could see Aragorn lifting a cloak bound to Windfola's saddle, revealing a sheathed sword underneath to which Éowyn pulled the bound cloak back over the sword again, glancing at Aragorn with a slightly accusing stare. Legolas drew in a deep breath that swelled in his chest, and turned his eyes back upon Arod's deep warm eyes, brushing the steed's smooth, creamy neck.

"The men have found their captain," the lady Éowyn said in a soft voice that doubtless no other could hear beside Aragorn, and himself. "They will follow you into battle, even to death. You have given us hope."

Legolas swallowed softly. There was something in her tone, in the determination of her words that reminded him somehow of Lalaith. Would that the lady stayed in safety, but he knew in the end, none could stay her if she wished to fight with her kinsmen, as Lalaith did, and as the lady, Lothirien, of Lórien. He could only offer a silent prayer to the Valar that such a brave, noble lady might live to enjoy the fruits of the freedom that would be won by such bravery as that which she showed.

With a final deep breath, Legolas placed his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, noting the Hobbit, young Merry seated upon a small white pony, just his size, with a wildly pleased smile upon his face. And Legolas grinned for his happiness. But it was not Merry to whom the greater part of his gaze was drawn. For Éowyn's eyes were deep and soulful, fixed steadily ahead of herself, though as Aragorn turned toward Legolas with a terse, shadowed expression, the Elf noted that she turned her eyes, glancing covertly at the ranger.

Legolas furrowed his brows, feeling a soft sense of pity for the lady. Aragorn's heart was another's, and the noble lady's heart was bound to be wounded. The Valar would not leave her comfortless, surely. Doubtless there was another somewhere upon this Middle Earth, who could win that lady's heart, and return her love.

"Oi, Legolas!" Gimli grumped from the ground, and he turned his head once again upon his friend, who stood below him, frowning beneath his beard, clearly incensed at being momentarily forgotten.

"Forgive me, Gimli," Legolas returned, and reached down a hand, clasping Gimli's sturdy forearm as he wrenched the Dwarf up behind him, upon Arod's back.

"Horsemen, hrrmm," Gimli grumped from behind him, shifting his weight noisily as mounted soldiers of Rohan clattered down the dirt path beside them. "I wish I could muster a legion of Dwarves, fully armed, and filthy."

Legolas drew in breath at this, as a sober thought entered his heart. "Your kinsmen may have no need to ride to war," he returned somberly. "I fear war already marches on their own lands."

Soldiers continued to file past, and Aragorn swung up into his saddle, as the lady Éowyn deftly mounted her own, gracefully, yet with the sturdy strength of one who knew her own powers, and was confident in them.

"Now is the hour!" The voice of Éomer rang out over the hilltop as riders gathered about him, and, Legolas noted, as the wives and children of the riders looked on, somber and quiet, unsure if those whom they loved would ever return. "Riders of Rohan, oaths you have taken. Now, fulfill them all! To lord and land!"

With that, the heir of Rohan's throne turned his mount's head down the hill, and toward the gate.

Legolas nudged Arod into motion, and the eager white horse leapt easily into a swift trot, scampering to Aragorn's side as the head of the column clattered down toward the gate.

To Gondor, he thought, to Lalaith. And a terse smile touched his lips even as a shadow of somber duty fell over his heart as the shadow of the gate passed over their heads, and they were off, galloping off over the grassy plain, eastward, toward the dark haze of angry black clouds that lay ever upon the far horizon.

...

No bronadui, mellon nin- Be patient, my friend.

Estent lû- A short time (at least, I think so.)


	33. Chapter 32

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 32**

**February 26, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 32

The wind here upon the high pinnacle was light and cool, though it carried a hint of distant brimstone as Lalaith strode along the edge of the balustrade, clad in the cream white gown Éowyn had gifted to her before her departure. She smiled tersely to herself as she absently ran her hands over the cloth of the sleeves, grateful that the dutiful matrons who had taken it away, had not burnt it as she had first feared, but had returned it to her, freshly laundered. Her hair spilled long and golden down her back as she walked alongside Pippin, and threads of it caught and danced in the light air as the wind flowed past.

Her eyes remained fixed upon the eastern sky, upon the distant mountains of shadow, lost in the brown fume that was roiling across the sky, the shadow that would bring the orcs with it, from across the river.

Beside her, she was aware of Pippin, and the young lord, Beregond, a friend Pippin had made, youthful and beardless, clad in a uniform of white and black, following along with them as he and the Hobbit spoke.

"Gandalf said that orcs will come, when the cloud has rolled across the sky," Pippin said in a worried voice as he nodded toward the black shadow in the sky that seemed to roll ever nearer as they spoke.

"Indeed," Beregond sighed. "I wish Lord Faramir would return."

"Lord Faramir," Lalaith cut in, remembering his name, her eyes gazing out into the eastern distance. "He is the younger of Lord Denethor's sons."

"Yes, my lady," Beregond returned with a nod. "But now, who knows if he will come back across the River out of the Darkness?"

Lalaith heard the melancholy in the young Gondorian's voice, and sighed softly, pressing her hands against the balustrade, and gazing long over the vastness of the Pelennor fields, toward the distant smoking ruin that was Osgiliath, laying liked a cracked and broken jewel upon the silver ribbon of the Anduin. Something out there, moving beneath the gloom of cloud-, she leaned out further, her eyes widening as she realized what she saw. Men on horses, galloping desperately from out of the ruins of Osgiliath-, her muscles grew tense at the shadows that dipped and dove above them, and her heart turned to ice.

"Yes," sighed Pippin, not having seen what she had, nor noted the change in her. "Gandalf too is anxious-,"

But his words cut short as the wild screech scraped through the air, and Pippin with a cry, fell to the stones, his hands over his ears. Lalaith flinched sharply as the back of her right shoulder burned and throbbed at the sound. Beregond, however, showed no sign of fear or pain as he joined Lalaith at the balustrade, leaning out and squinting into the distance.

"Your men are on horses, retreating from Osgiliath," Lalaith told him, her teeth set against the pain in her shoulder as the sound faded, knowing he could not see all that she could, yet.

"Black Riders," Beregond returned in a voice deep and sickened, nodding to the five birdlike forms that dove and swooped above the shadowed line of moving horses. "Black riders on the air."

Tentatively, Pippin rose, flinching as another long screech rent the air about them, though with Lalaith's hand upon his arm, he remained upright, this time.

"The foul beasts are tearing the men from the very saddles of their mounts," Lalaith choked, shuddering as the great black claws of the winged creatures snatched small figures of men, and carried them high, before letting them loose, tumbling down through the air before they crashed heavily into the earth, to rise no more.

Faint and remote, shuddered a long trumpeting call, and Lalaith knew it, somehow. Like Boromir's horn it sounded, and she knew who had blown the long silver sounding note.

"Faramir!" Beregond cried in answer to her thoughts. "It is the Lord Faramir's call. But how will he make the gate if these foul hell hawks have other weapons than fear? Will no one go out to him?"

With that, he sprang away from the balustrade, making for the stables just as the clatter of hooves upon stone, drew near, and Gandalf, upon Shadowfax's back, clattered near, and with one hand, he reached down and scooped the flinching Hobbit up, dropping him before him.

"Nay, brave lord, Beregond," Gandalf commanded, bringing the young Gondorian to a halt. "For it would be a needless death were you to go out. I shall do it."

"Gandalf," Lalaith called, hurrying after him, "let me come, too-,"

"No," Gandalf commanded, with a brief turn of his head. His voice was stern, but there was worry in his eyes as he looked down upon her. And with that, Shadowfax, bearing the Wizard and Hobbit, sprang away, like an arrow from the string, and disappeared down through the wide portal way, and was gone.

Beregond, frozen at Gandalf's command, glanced back at Lalaith, still at the balustrade.

"I shall go down to the gate, to meet them, when those who are-," he swallowed hard, flinching as another wretched shriek tore the air jaggedly asunder. "When those who remain have come through."

"I will wait here," Lalaith returned. "My sight is such that I can watch them, and share their peril from afar, even if I am not there, to help."

Beregond nodded tersely, and with that, he darted away as Lalaith turned back, flinching tightly at the pain upon her shoulder, pressing her left hand to it, though that helped little, as the Nazgûl wheeled and shrieked in the distance. She watched them, wondering which one was Faramir, feeling already, a strange kinship to the man who was brother to Boromir, and fearing she might not meet him, were the cruel claws of the Nazgûls' mounts to slay him, down there upon the fields as they snatched men and even their horses up, flinging them through the air.

But then Lalaith caught a flash of white and silver streaking toward the riders across the grassy plains. Gandalf, she realized had gone through the gate, and a ray of hope burst upon her heart as Shadowfax streaked closer to the foundering men and their horses.

One of the swooping dragons drove through the very midst of the fleeing host, plowing up earth as it went, and casting men and horses to the left and right. Men rose, though their mounts did not, fleeing now on foot, and men here and there upon their horses turning back to aid their fallen comrades. Close again, the Nazgûl swooped, just as Gandalf raised his staff, and a bright beam of light burst out from it, like a sunbeam streaking suddenly through a rent in dark clouds, sending a fount of light out over the fleeing men, and into the faces of the Black Riders and their mounts.

The Nazgûl's dark winged mounts balked at the light, writhing and twisting in the air as if the very touch of the light seared their mottled, naked flesh, then they wheeled in the air, and fled back the way they had come, vanishing into the lowering cloud of thick fume as Shadowfax turned his head, and galloped along with the fleeing men and horses back toward the city gates.

In the distance, Lalaith could hear the creak and groan of the arched gate below her as they were drawn open below her, and in they streamed, weary, exhausted, but alive, and Lalaith smiled for that, even as her lips trembled softly for the shrouded spots of motionless brown or silver, dotted here and there upon the plains beyond the walls of the city.

...

Faramir drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he passed beneath the shadow of the gate at Mithrandir's side. Never before, had he been so relieved to see the kindly old wizard clad now in robes of white, rather than grey as he had been, before. The hooves of the horses clattered over the stone.

Where was Ingold? He wondered, glancing here and there about him for the face of his grizzled old comrade. He had last seen him in the ruins of Osgiliath-, Ingold and a number of archers had saved him from pursuing orcs, cutting them down with their arrows as he flung himself against a crumbling stand of broken stone. Ingold had borne a streak of blood upon his head, though he had continued to battle valiantly. Faramir recalled his last sight of the man, was when he had ordered him to have the men break for Minas Tirith amid the chaotic assault of the orcs. Where was he? But amid the clattering hooves, the weary, wounded faces, fraught with grief and exhaustion as men scrambled down from their mounts, he did not see the man's face, and a wave of bitter grief arose in his heart, knowing now, the fate of his old friend.

But he gulped swiftly. He had his duty as the captain of his men, he reminded himself. Grieving would come later he reminded himself as he drew a breath into his tightened chest, his jaw knotting softly for a brief moment as he urged his mount toward the white form of Gandalf. The wizard bore a new staff of smooth white wood, its pommel carved as if to imitate curling vines, Elflike, Faramir noted amidst his fragmented thoughts.

"Mithrandir!" he cried, urging his mount ever nearer to the white robed rider, and Gandalf turned at his voice.

"They broke through our defenses," Faramir gasped out, riding ever nearer. "They have taken the bridge and the west bank." He drew in a gulping breath of air. "Battalions of orcs are crossing the river-,"

"It is as the lord, Denethor predicted," called the voice of his kinsman, Prince Imrahil as he came striding near between the crush of horses. "Long has he foreseen this doom!"

Faramir released a short breath, refraining from rolling his eyes. How had his cousin, Lothiriel, grown into such a level headed woman, he wondered.

"Foreseen, and done nothing!" Gandalf countered, turning the head of his mount the more easily to scowl upon Imrahil.

Faramir's heart stopped in his throat as Gandalf turned, his eyes falling upon the small child sized man seated before Gandalf, who, until this moment, had been shrouded by Gandalf's cloak. In his astonishment, Faramir could not glance away from the curling honey colored hair, and the rounded, innocent features, though he could see by the little creature's embarrassed glance turned away from him, that his amazed study of him, was disconcerting.

"Faramir?" Gandalf queried, and then a look of understanding crossed the wizard's wrinkled features, and he murmured, "This is not the first halfling to have crossed your path."

Faramir gulped softly. "No," he murmured, shaking his head. And to this, the small Hobbit lifted his head, his eyes lighting in tentative hope.

"You've seen Frodo and Sam?" he asked in a soft, lilting voice, to which Faramir nodded quickly.

"Where? When?" Gandalf demanded.

"In Ithilien," he offered, recalling his meeting with the two Hobbits, and his brief temptation to the ring that still left him quavering within to think of. "Not two days ago."

To this, the Wizard and Hobbit traded a quick look of relief, though Faramir only felt a rising memory of anxiety.

"Gandalf, they're taking the road to the Morgul Vale," he breathed, and Gandalf glanced swiftly at him, understanding the meaning of his words.

"And then the pass of Cirith Ungol?" Gandalf murmured, to which Faramir swiftly nodded.

"What does that mean?" the Hobbit questioned, his own face grown wary now, glancing up at Gandalf for an answer. "What's wrong?"

But Gandalf's eyes were fixed now, only upon Faramir, his brows twitching with deepening concern.

"Faramir," the aged wizard muttered somberly, his voice grown gravelly and deep, "Tell me everything. Tell me all you know."

And to this, Faramir willingly nodded.

...

Lalaith stood at the balustrade, looking out over the lower tiers of the city, and the vast fields of grass beyond. Gandalf was coming, for she had seen the white of his robes and the sheen of Shadowfax's coat rising up the ascending streets beside another, a figure of darker brown mounted upon the back of a copper colored horse. But her eyes were not upon them as she hugged her arms to herself, the wind catching at her hair, and the long loose sleeves of the gown Éowyn had gifted her.

Rather, her eyes were trained upon the bodies of the men who lay strewn upon the fields, slain by the claws of the Nazgûl. Would they not be reclaimed, she wondered, doomed to moulder upon the grasses of the plain? And what of their kinsmen, slain in the ragged remnants of Osgiliath? What had the orcs done to despoil them? True, she reminded herself, their souls had gone to dwell beyond the stars, but to let the bodies of such valiant men rot upon the grass, seemed a cruel thing as repayment of their sacrifice. Still, what was there to be done? They could not be reclaimed, for the orcs were coming. She could see them, even now, brown and grey shadows moving about the ruined, ragged city that sat upon the river's banks. A time for mourning, for burial might come at some future time, but it was not now.

The clatter of hooves upon stone entered her thoughts, but still she did not turn. For she wished to wait a moment, gather her sober thoughts about her, so that her countenance would not be grieving and morose when she turned. She did not want Pippin to be any more fearful than he already was.

Faramir dismounted beside Gandalf, and the young Hobbit near the green sward of grass where stood the gnarled, leafless tree of the king, and looked upon it with a low sigh as he bowed his head, and turned away briefly, his eyes going out over the ramparts rather than toward the high imposing doorway where through, his father sat. For he did not wish to go in, and face the man, yet.

His eyes fell, with a slight lift of his brows upon an unexpected figure that stood there, a woman, of golden hair, clad in foreign garments, not those of an Elf, he was sure, but perhaps those of a maiden of their distant ally, Rohan? As he thought on it, a strange warmth entered his being, when he thought she might be a royal maiden of the house of Théoden, though why, he could not say.

Licking his lips softly, he turned the reigns of his mount over to one of the guards, and started toward her.

She seemed to stiffen as he approached, as if she could hear him coming, though his footfalls were quiet. Still she did not turn, and he continued to draw near, imagining her turning, imagining her face-, a face soft beauty, yet strong as well, her eyes bright with strength to rival any man's. He would know her when she turned, for in his mind, he saw her face as clearly as if he had seen her before, met her in some other unremembered time.

Lifting a tremulous voice, he called out, "My lady." And slowly, with a grace that made him ache to watch, she began slowly, to turn her head.

Lalaith had sensed the man's approach, and had not turned, the sound of his tread, and of his soft breathing so like Boromir's that she almost did not dare to look at him, to have the image of her old friend fade at the sight of a stranger's face. Even his voice, when he had called to her, had sounded like Boromir, so that she swallowed a lump swiftly in her throat as she turned away from the balustrade, and looked for the first time, upon Faramir, the younger of the steward's two sons.

Lalaith's lips pursed at the sight of him, so familiar to her. She knew his face, for she had seen it once in a dream-,

"Welcome, my lady, to Minas Tirith. Mithrandir said a maiden had accompanied him from Rohan-," His face was written with a small smile of greeting, which faltered only slightly at the sight of her, as if he had been expecting to see another in her stead. But still, his warm greeting remained, and he offered her a soft bow of respect. And within her, her heart faltered slightly, for his face was like his brother's in many ways.

This man was somewhat slighter than Boromir, though still well muscled enough for a warrior, and it struck Lalaith that his was the soul of one who was a warrior only out of need rather than by his own choice. His hair was the same honey colored hue as Boromir's, though it bore a slight curl in it that Boromir's had not.

He drew in a short breath, his eyes wandering to her tipped ears. "But-, you are an Elf-,"

"Indeed I am, my lord, Faramir. Imladris is my home," she returned with a soft curtsey. "Lord Elrond raised me from childhood."

Faramir smiled gently at this, which Lalaith could not help but return, his smile reminding her so much of Boromir that a warm lump threatened to rise in her throat, and spill from her eyes even as she smiled.

"Then we are deeply honored by your presence," Faramir continued. "For I have heard of the fabled beauty of the maidens of Elrond's house." He smiled again, and Lalaith's mind cast back in time to her first meeting with Boromir on the shaded walkways in Rivendell, the small flower he had presented to her, and his flattering, though kindly meant words.

"You are the younger of the two, I would venture to guess," he ventured, offering her a half grin. "Lalaith Elerrina, the maiden with the crown of stars in her hair?"

To this, she nodded, though her smile fell away, and her eyes closed tightly as a wave of grief gripped her heart suddenly.

"Oh, my lady," Faramir blurted, chagrined. "What-? Did I say something?"

"No," she shook her head, looking back up at him quickly with a smile, though she could no longer keep a few tears from spilling upon her cheeks. "No, you have guessed right, and you have said nothing to cause my tears, it is only-," she drew in a swift sigh. "I knew your brother well. And you look so very like him-,"

"Then perhaps we are already akin, you and I," Faramir offered gently, stepping forward. He lifted a hand, and gently brushed her tears from her cheeks, smiling gently as he did, his eyes so like Boromir's, his soft touch so gentle, his eyes-,

Lalaith dropped her eyes suddenly, seeing in his gaze something that had reminded her of his brother's eyes. Boromir had loved her, she knew, and had died for it, in the end. But the tenderness in Faramir's eyes was only the emotion of the moment, his learning that she knew Boromir, that they shared a bond already because of the man who had so selflessly died to save her, and the young Hobbits. She lifted her eyes and studied his face again, promising herself that she saw no more in his face at this first meeting, than she had in Aragorn's eyes, when she first met him.

He turned slightly at the sound of Gandalf and Pippin striding over the stones nearer to them, the swift patter of Pippin's bare feet following along at the steady gate of the wizard, and the intermittent tapping of his staff.

"Lalaith!" Pippin called excitedly, drawing near. "He's seen Frodo and Sam!"

"Yes, Pippin, I know!" Lalaith called back. "It is encouraging, is it not-,"

Faramir cast a glance of mild questioning at her, and Lalaith's words trailed off, as she realized that he of himself, had not yet said anything of his meeting with the two Hobbits. She smiled, and lowered her eyes. It would take much explaining to tell him how she had known somehow, that he had met the Hobbits.

But Faramir merely grinned warmly upon her, hiding a sudden nervousness behind his eyes.

Quietly, he began, "I must go into my father now, my lady. I shall leave you then, in Gandalf's charge-,"

"I will come with you," she offered, cutting off his words.

Faramir chuckled softly at this, though it was terse and tense. "You need not be with me, when I speak to my father, my lady," he returned with a lowered voice and a deep sigh. "I fear that he will have strong words to say to me, which I would not have you hear-,"

Lalaith smirked at this. "I have already heard strong words enough from Lord Denethor," she confessed. "And beneath his fear and bitterness, there is truly nothing evil in your father's character. I have no reason to fear him. And we are kin, you and I, already, as you have said." She stepped forward and looped her arm about his. Warm and strong it was, she noted, through the thick cloth of his tunic. And he smiled warmly upon her with a smile not unlike Boromir's. "I will go in with you, as you speak to him."

Gandalf, sighed at these last words, and Lalaith smiled at him as he smirked and winked at her as she passed him, and Pippin who blinked silently, watching her with a half open mouth.

Faramir smiled at the Hobbit's expression, though the smile did not fully reach his eyes and with her arm linked in his, started back across the green sward where the bare white branches of the white tree reached plaintively toward the sky. And onward to the stone steps, and the great arch where sentries stood at attention, and where Denethor waited beyond, brooding and silent.


	34. Chapter 33

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 33**

**February 27, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 33

Lalaith stood a half step behind Faramir, half hidden from Denethor's gaze by Faramir's shoulder as if he wished to shield her from some imagined blow. Her head was bent forward slightly, watching Denethor who sat morose and silent upon his throne of dark stone, the burning glare of his eyes flashing from his son's face, to hers, and back again.

"And then I let them go, Father," Faramir muttered, his eyes fixed carefully upon Denethor's face.

"Upon the road to Minas Morgul," he added, swallowing softly when Denethor made no move but to breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his dark robes with greater agitation as his son spoke.

"To take the ring to Mordor, and destroy it in the fire of the mountain," Faramir finished quietly, the silence of the great hall fairly pounding in Lalaith's ears.

Denethor stirred at last, and Lalaith reached a hand out, lightly touching Faramir's arm. The steward's eyes darted toward the slight movement, then his eyes shot to hers piercing and intense, his face shivering in barely contained rage before he turned back to his son.

"This is how you would serve your city?" he seethed, his words dark and harsh. "You would risk its utter ruin?"

Beneath her fingers and the rough tooled leather, the muscles of Faramir's arm grew taut.

"I did what I judged to be right," Faramir answered in return, his back straight, his words soft, yet firmly spoken as his eyes remained unwavering upon his father. Lalaith felt a wave of pride wash over her, but Denethor seemed only more incensed at his son's words.

"What you judged to be right?" Denethor seethed as his jaw trembled in silent fury. "You sent the Ring of Power into Mordor! In the hands of a witless halfling!"

Lalaith shifted her weight as his fuming words rang through the silent hall, though she said nothing.

A dark look stole over Denethor's eyes as he continued, "It should have been brought back to the citadel to be kept safe. Hidden." he glanced away as if at some secret thought and his voice lowered. "Dark and deep in the vaults. Not to be used." His eyes twitched minutely at this, and a chill shuddered over Lalaith's heart, the look in his eyes recalling to her, Boromir's countenance upon Amon Hen when he had tried to take the One Ring from Frodo.

No, you could never deny the Ring's will, were you to have it in your possession, she shuddered to herself in her mind, recalling the seductive pull of the Ring that she had felt herself, when she had for that brief moment, held it in her palm before she had summoned the strength to give it back to Frodo. Denethor did not possess the strength to deny the Ring's temptation. Faramir strength at letting the Ring go, was a tribute to his nobility indeed, and Denethor's anger, an even greater sign that he could not have denied the Ring's will.

"Unless-," Denethor continued, "at the uttermost end of need."

"I would not use the Ring," Faramir answered back, a firm lift to his voice, and a wave of pride swelled in Lalaith's heart. "Not if Minas Tirith were falling in ruin, and I alone could save her."

Denethor smirked curtly at this. "Every you desire to appear lordly and gracious, as a king of old." His sneer fell to a trembling down turned line. "Boromir would have remembered his father's need. He would have brought me a kingly gift."

"Boromir would not have brought the ring," Faramir shot back resolutely. "He would have stretched out his hand to this thing and taken it. He would have fallen-,"

"You know nothing of this matter!" Denethor cried, pushing himself forward upon his throne, his lips furrowed, white and bloodless.

"He would have kept it for his own!" Faramir returned, undaunted.

"And when he returned," he added, his voice lowered, somewhat, "you would not have known your son."

"Boromir was loyal to me!" Denethor exploded, leaping up, and staggering from his throne, wielding his white rod as if he meant to strike Faramir with it. "Not some wizard's pupil, who consorts with a faithless, heartless-, Elf!" Denethor spat, waving his white rod in Lalaith's face.

Faramir fell back a pace, snatching Lalaith's wrist, and drawing her back behind him as he did.

Staggering back, Denethor tripped upon the step of his dais as he did, and falling clumsily at the foot of his throne.

Lalaith sighed low, and shook her head, dropping her eyes. But Faramir stepped forward once again, attentive, and concerned.

"Father?" he murmured, to which Denethor lifted his eyes, glancing past his shoulder, to Lalaith, though his focus went beyond her as a trembling smile touched his face and slowly he rose once again.

"My son," he whimpered, and Lalaith furrowed her brow softly. He was not looking at Faramir. "Come," he stepped forward, his hands outstretched, gesturing toward Lalaith. "Here is she, who loves you, she of the fair Elven folk, who has traded her immortality for your love! Your bride awaits you!"

_Ai_, the poor man, she sighed within herself, pity rising as she realized he saw what they did not see, a memory, intangible as mist, of Boromir, his first born. She knew she could never comprehend fully, the grief of a parent over the death of a child. Was the loss such a terrible thing, that Boromir's death could drive his father to the loss of his wits as it seemed to have?

But then Théoden's son had died of battle wounds as well, and the king of Rohan had not given his soul to madness, when he had learned of it, Lalaith reminded herself, turning her eyes once again upon Gondor's steward. Doubtless, Denethor suffer from more than she could see, and she could only pity him mutely, unable to help.

The vision beyond her shoulder seemed to have faded as Denethor's face fell back into a miserable, bitter look, his gaze falling upon her with distaste.

"He loved you, yet you-," his seething words faded into angry silence.

"My heart is another's, my lord," Lalaith returned quietly.

"That-," Denethor seethed, "_Elf lord_," he spat the word, "is not half the man my son was!"

Lalaith drew in a swift, hot breath at these words, and she lunged forward a step, fuming, though at Faramir's hands upon her shoulders, she remembered herself, and drew back, conscious now, of Denethor's face trembling, as if near tears.

Pity returned to her, and she turned her eyes away, ducking her head.

"Leave me," Denethor's voice grated. "Both of you."

And without protest, Faramir turned away, drawing Lalaith with him as Denethor stumbled back to his dark throne of black stone.

The open air of the high mountain was a welcome relief as it washed over them both as Faramir and Lalaith stepped out upon the steps, the great iron doors booming shut behind them, locking Denethor in, alone in the prison of his mind.

"Come," Faramir bid, offering her his arm, which she took now, the two of them leaning slightly against each other, both wearied from Denethor's words. "I will see you back to your rooms."

"Thank you," she returned quietly as they skirted the stone path around the White Tree, still bare and lifeless.

"So-," Faramir began as they started toward the green sward, drawing near toward the white tree, its bare branches reaching plaintively toward the sky. Faramir's voice had grown somewhat tense, though he struggled to hide it. "Your heart is given to another?"

She looked up, wondering at the tone of his voice, and the almost plaintive look of boyish pleading in his eyes.

"Yes," she answered swiftly, pushing away the cold chill that threatened to clench her heart in its icy fist. "I have loved him for centuries, in truth. And he, me. We have only this last autumn pledge our troth, though. When he spoke of his desire to join Frodo on his quest to destroy the Ring, I offered my bow, as well."

Faramir's eyes widened at her words. "That is how you have come to be here, with Gandalf," he murmured in almost a whisper. "Frodo Baggins spoke of two Elves, with whom he had come, but he did not say that one was a woman." His lips twitched softly at this. "A shieldmaiden of her people, fearless and stalwart beneath her beauty-," he murmured quietly before he shook himself, and pursed his lips.

"May I be so bold, my lady," he inquired quietly, "as to ask the name of the one who has been fortunate enough to win your hand?"

Lalaith's eyes shot to Faramir's as the dim light of the sun found them again.

So like Boromir, she thought quietly, yet not so.

"His name is Legolas," she offered glancing down at her mottled reflection in the pool beneath the tree's roots as they passed it. "He is a prince of the Elven realm of Mirkwood. King Thranduil is his father."

Faramir nodded at this. "A prince of the Elves," he muttered softly to himself. "A bold warrior, I do not doubt, to come on such a quest. And you, no less brave, to join him." He smiled, though it was a timid boyish smile. "I do not doubt but that you and he are well matched, and that the love between you is great, such that one like myself, who has not yet lived even fifty years, could never hope to comprehend."

Lalaith lifted her eyes at this, a wide smile of gratitude drawing across her lips at his words.

"Surely one day, you will find a maiden who will awaken your love, as the spring rains awaken the first flowers," she offered, squeezing his arm. "And you will understand then."

But Faramir only smiled silently at this, and place his hand over hers where it rested upon his arm, softly returning the gentle squeeze of her hand.


	35. Chapter 34

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 34**

**March 1, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 34

"What was I thinking, Lalaith?" Pippin whispered softly as the Hobbit and Elf maiden sat together upon a wooden bench sheltered on the edge of the great hall, beyond the marching row of black marble pillars. Pippin was quite fine-looking, Lalaith thought with a smile, clad in his small hauberk and jerkin of black and silver, his furry bare feet suspended above the floor, while Lalaith's slippered feet rested firmly upon the marbled tiles. The lengths of the gown Éowyn had given her, trailed down the creamy white of her skirt, shifting softly in the eddying breezes that stirred within the great hall.

Lifting a hand, Lalaith rested it upon his small shoulder. "Your offer of service in payment of Boromir's sacrifice was a noble one, Pippin," she reminded him.

Pippin sighed, and glanced at her pleadingly. "But what service can a Hobbit offer such a great lord of Men?"

"It was well done," the echoing voice of Faramir came from the small doorway to their left, leading to chambers beyond as the steward's son came striding through, a generous smile of warm greeting curving up his bearded lips. Lalaith quickly stood, and beside her, Pippin hopped swiftly to his feet as well as Boromir's younger brother came striding near. "A generous deed should not be checked with cold counsel."

His friendly gaze flashing from Pippin to Lalaith, and back again as he approached, his eyes alight with approval, resting now upon Pippin. "You are to join the tower guard."

"I didn't think they would find any livery that would fit me," Pippin muttered sheepishly, to which Faramir traded a brief grin with Lalaith before his eyes fell again to the Hobbit's.

"It once belonged to a young boy of the city," Faramir offered. "A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending to his studies."

Lalaith smirked broadly, understanding dawning upon her now as Pippin too, brightened.

"This was yours?" the young Hobbit queried cheerfully.

"Yes, it was mine," Faramir returned, reaching a hand out, and straightening the shoulder of the jerkin. "My father had it made for me."

"Pippin seems somewhat taller than you were then, my lord," Lalaith smiled cheerily, to which Pippin smirked, laughing softly.

"And I'm not likely to grown anymore," the young Hobbit added. "Except sideways."

Lalaith chuckled softly at this, and the men too, laughing quietly at Pippin's words, though Faramir's soft laughed faded quickly.

"It never fitted me, either," he agreed with a smile. "Boromir was always the soldier."

Lalaith's own smile faded at the mention of his brother as a wave of brief pain cast itself across her heart. As if sensing her emotion, Faramir lifted his eyes, and met her gaze.

"They were so alike, he and my father," Faramir continued, the corners of his mouth turned up in a quiet smile, though his eyes had grown somber. "Proud. Stubborn even. But strong."

The light in his eyes dimmed slightly at this, and Pippin was swift to notice.

"I think you have strength," the little Hobbit offered. "Of a different kind. And one day your father will see it."

Faramir grew thoughtful at this, and Lalaith spoke quickly. "You denied yourself the One Ring," she offered gently. "And to do so, takes great courage, and strength of will, my lord. More than many other men of your race have possessed."

He blinked thoughtfully at this, his eyes searching hers, and he smiled gently, sadly at her as he did.

"The Hobbit, Samwise Gamgee, told me that my brother tried to kill Frodo for the Ring," he muttered softly.

"Boromir was tempted by the Ring," she returned quietly, trading a brief glance with Pippin. "And yes," she sighed quietly. "He tried to take it from Frodo, but-,"

She shivered as she remembered that day, the fury in Boromir's eyes when she let Frodo escape. When he had come close to striking her-, But he had not. He had come to the edge of the Abyss, but he had not fallen in. He had drawn back before the last, and had wept at her feet at what he had almost done, begging her forgiveness-,

"He stumbled, but he did not fully fall," Lalaith murmured softly, and Faramir's face grew soft at these words.

"He redeemed himself in the end, my lord, and died as he lived," she continued. "An honorable, valiant warrior, who gave more thought to the safety of others than to his own."

Faramir's eyes grew moist at this, and beside her, Pippin glanced downward, nodding silently. "I assure you, lady, it was an honor for him to die that he might spare the life of a maiden so fair as you," he offered her, his voice choking softly as he did.

Lalaith's cheeks colored at this, and she dropped her eyes.

...

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor-,"

Pippin's soft lilting voice, slightly taut with nervousness, echoed through the hall as Lalaith stood near her shoulder almost brushing Faramir's arm. Her hands were clasped before her as she watched the small Hobbit who knelt before the dark stone seat of Denethor as the Steward looked on the Hobbit's bent head, his golden brown curls, with a curiously humored expression. This was the first time since she had first met him, Lalaith realized, that Denethor bore the slender impress of a smile upon his usually troubled face. A slight smile touched her own face. More like Boromir he now appeared, the way he must have been as a younger man, before his wife had died, before the strain of his office, and of whatever other evils that had befallen him, had claimed him.

"In peace or war," Pippin continued, reciting the words he had memorized, "in living or dying-, from-," he stammered to a stop, his eyes closing as he struggled to remember. "From this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me."

"And I shall not forget it," Denethor returned rising from his seat, his voice gentle and generous as he stepped forward, offering his ringed hand toward the Hobbit. "Nor fail to reward that which is given."

Hesitantly, Pippin pecked a brief kiss to the ring the Steward bore, and Denethor's hand came beneath his chin, lifting Pippin's face so that their eyes could meet.

"Fealty with love," he spoke, before striding away toward the long table that had been set for his noon meal. "Valor with honor."

Denethor cast a meaningful glance toward Faramir, and a hardened glance at Lalaith, to which she shuddered briefly as his lips twitched as if with reserved anger. "Disloyalty, with vengeance."

The soft metallic shift of mail echoed softly as Pippin rose, his sweet Hobbit face written with an expression of unsurity at Denethor's caustic words as he shot a glance at Lalaith.

Beside her, Lalaith could sense the brief shifting of Faramir's muscles at his father's glance as Denethor seated himself, and began to gather various morsels of the fare that was before him onto his plate.

"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses," he began in a deep, casual tone, not even glancing at Faramir. "Defenses that your brother long held intact." He shot a caustic glance at Lalaith, "Perhaps you might remember him somewhat, my lady? My son, Boromir?"

Lalaith shuddered at the veiled anger within Denethor's eyes as Faramir, his own gaze unsure, took a short, protective step forward, and offered in a softly broken voice, "What would you have me do?"

"I will not yield the river in Pelennor unfought," Denethor answered sharply, though his eyes did not look up. "Osgiliath must be retaken."

Lalaith's brow furrowed at the casual tone of the Steward's voice. Did he know nothing? Osgiliath was swarming with orcs! It could no more be retaken by the forces of Minas Tirith, than the whole of Mordor could be successfully overrun and conquered!

"My lord, Osgiliath is overrun," Faramir answered, his own voice lifting slightly echoing the trepidation that Lalaith felt within her heart.

Denethor glanced up sharply at his son at this. "Much must be risked in war," he answered crisply.

"Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?" he demanded swiftly.

Faramir shot a glance at Pippin's open face, and then glanced sideward at Lalaith who stood beside him. His eyes were wet, though they softened for a moment, before he glanced back toward his father.

"You wish now that our places had been exchanged," he asked quietly. "That I had died, and Boromir had lived."

Denethor's eyes, dim, glazed, gazed ahead. "Yes," he whispered, his lower lip trembling. "I wish that."

Lalaith's heart grew cold at the harsh cruelty in his soft words, and she turned her eyes to Faramir, whose eyes had grown moist. Had Boromir been in Faramir's place, he would have fretted and fumed at such words. And though Lalaith would not have faulted him, still a touch of tender admiration overcame her that Faramir merely murmured through barely withheld tears, "Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead."

And with that, he offered his father a stiffened bow, and turned away, walking swiftly toward the door before he stopped briefly, and turned back.

"If I should return, think better of me, Father," he muttered, his voice so like a timid child's seeking approval, that a hard lump formed in Lalaith's throat.

"That would depend on the manner of your return," Denethor muttered curtly to his back.

Faramir did not turn back as he continued on toward the door.

Lalaith watched him go, though she felt Denethor's eyes upon her, and she turned back to him.

"And what do you intend to do, my lady?" Denethor asked curtly when their eyes met. "You have made no oath of service as your friend Master Peregrin has."

"Whether I have spoken an oath to you or not, the duty I owe to your people because of Boromir's sacrifice is engraved deeply upon my heart," Lalaith returned, her voice swift and curt to which Denethor's lips drew into a tight line.

Denethor harrumphed. "Boromir's sacrifice-," he muttered to himself. "It gained me your loyalty, perhaps, though it was not enough for my son to gain your heart."

"My heart is another's, my lord," she returned. Her hand lifted of its own volition, touching the cloth of her gown beneath her throat where the medallion rested, a cool circle of metal against her flesh. "This I have told you, already."

"And what of my second son?" Denethor muttered, his lips pursing tightly he nodded toward Faramir's back as he reached the iron doors, which the guards drew open for him. "Is he mighty enough a warrior," Denethor scoffed upon the words, "that he could draw your heart away from your precious _Elf prince_?"

Lalaith caught Pippin's furrowed, worried look out of the corner of her eye, and her eyes shot to his briefly as the doors at the fore of the hall boomed shut behind Faramir's back.

"Faramir is a noble man, but nothing will take my heart from him whom I love, and who loves me," she returned. And her voice though it quavered briefly, bore a strength in it to which Denethor scowled.

She could feel tears rising in her throat, and she wished for nothing more than to escape. "And as I have no formal duty to you, my lord, I will now take my leave."

She glanced at Pippin, shooting him a fraught look of apology. Leaving him here, with Denethor, she almost felt as if she were abandoning him. But Pippin's look in return was gentle, and softened with understanding.

She smiled briefly to the Hobbit, then turned and hurried away, half running in her haste toward the great doors, drawn open to her, issuing in the weak light that filtered through the thick clouds that roiled over the sky.

"My lord, Faramir!" As the doors behind her clattered shut, Faramir stopped at the bottom of the steps and drew himself up, his back stiff though he did not turn.

"My lord, please, do not do this," she cried, flitting to the bottom of the steps to join him as he turned, his sea grey eyes turning upon her own as he smiled weakly in welcome. "Your father's order is folly. You will die if you heed him."

"I am a soldier of Minas Tirith," he answered gently, his gaze soft as he reached out and squeezed Lalaith's arm gently.

He said no more as if those words alone, were explanation enough. He released her arm and moved to turn away before she reached out and caught his arm tightly, drawing him to a stop, and coming about him to block his path.

"My lord, no," she grated.

"Lady Lalaith," Faramir murmured gently, his tone and the look in his eyes almost reminding her of Legolas for a brief moment as he shook his head, his eyes deep, and delving gently into her own. "Minas Tirith is the city of the Men of Númenor, gladly will I die to defend her. To defend-," a flush darkened his bearded cheeks. "To defend you, Lalaith."

"No!" Lalaith cried suddenly, caring nothing that her voice echoed off the stones about her. "You have more to live for you cannot-, you do not-,"

"Lalaith," he grated softly, his lower lip trembling like a child's. "Since I was no more than a boy, I have dreamed of a woman-, a woman I know I have loved, though I had never met her. When I saw you standing at the balustrade, clad in your white gown fashioned in the manner of a maiden of Rohan, your golden hair catching in the wind, it was if I had-," he furrowed his brow and shook his head. "But I had always imagined another face-,"

His words faded as he drew in a thoughtful breath. "Whether this dream maiden is truly more than a boyish fantasy, I shall never know, now. But I will fight to defend you as if you were her, for she is not here." he breathed quietly to himself as once again he turned away, and started toward the stables.

"Faramir!" Lalaith called to his back, but he did not turn.

And with tears rising in her eyes, Lalaith spun away, catching up her skirt and rushing across the green sward toward the shadowed down slanting tunnel in search of Gandalf, somewhere about on the lower levels.

...

"All has turned to vain ambition!" Gandalf steamed as he hurried down through the streets of the town, Lalaith catching up her skirts to hurry after him as he strode along, his staff tapping rapidly over the stones as he descended narrow alleys and steep steps to reach the lowest level of the city. "The Steward of Gondor would, in his madness, sacrifice his only remaining son! Mindless cur!"

Lalaith sighed, her own thoughts in agreement with the wizard, though her heart felt a mute pity for the aged Man. He did not have an aura of evil about him. He did not seem to have willingly given himself to darkness.

"Denethor has not always been this way, has he?" Lalaith asked softly from behind him as Gandalf hurried along.

This question, quietly offered, seemed to cool Gandalf's ire, and though his pace did not slacken, the edge upon his words was dulled.

"I think," Gandalf murmured quietly, "that his descent into this madness that has taken him, may have begun with Finduilas' untimely death. For he loved her truly, as he has loved little else. Excepting perhaps, for Boromir."

"The night he sent for me," Lalaith returned, "when he spoke to me of Boromir, he told me that Faramir is more as his mother was."

"And indeed he is," Gandalf answered back with a thoughtful sigh. "Perhaps that is why Denethor has always seemed to resent the younger of his sons. For Faramir is ever a constant reminder of she whom he lost. But no matter his pain, this foolishness is beyond reason, or allowance."

Gandalf cast a somber glance at Lalaith as they passed beneath a low archway, and came out upon the crowded street of the lowest level, the people crushed to one side and the other as mounted soldiers, following in ranks behind their captain, clattered slowly past, their faces written with the somber acceptance of their fate. Their sable banners etched with the image of the white tree caught in the slight wind that stirred, flicking morosely, as if with sadness of their own. Women, their eyes swollen with tears, cast flowers before the feet of their horses or offered them into the hands of the soldiers. Here and there, among the crowd, was heard the soft sound of someone weeping.

They were going to their deaths. Lalaith could see it upon the faces of the men, and her eyes grew misted at the sight.

"There he is," she pointed quickly to Faramir at the head of the column, mounted and clad in armor now, his honey brown curls trailing down his armored back from beneath his helmet. And Gandalf wasted little time in pushing his way through the crowd toward the Steward's son.

"Faramir!" he cried out, pushing his way through the crowd and into the street as Lalaith hurried behind him. "Faramir! Your father's will has turned to madness. Do not throw away your life so rashly."

Faramir, from upon his mount, looked somberly down upon the wizard, and then his eyes darted toward Lalaith, his look mournful, and briefly accusing, though there was no sharpness in his eyes.

"Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" he returned, his voice gentle, yet firm in its tone. "This is the city of the Men of Númenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom-,"

His words trailed away as he rode on and past. And though Lalaith moved to run after him, Gandalf's hand coming to rest upon her narrow shoulder, bid her to stop.

Armored soldiers drew the great arching gate open with an ominous creak, and the horses clattered through, the faces of the soldiers grim and resigned.

"Faramir!" Lalaith called, though Gandalf drew her back as the last of the column filed through, but the young captain, at the head of his men, did not turn. And slowly, with a grim echo, the gates boomed shut.

...

The sun brushed like a warm soothing hand upon her skin as Lalaith clenched her skirt in her hands and hurried along the wall, seeking for an opening along the crowded parapet. There was none that she could see, and as she scurried along, she sought in vain, to peer over the shoulders of the Men of the city, armor clad soldiers, who stood like somber stone statues, or the women weeping and heavy eyed who strained to catch a last glimpse of their husbands as they rode out to their doom.

"My lady," a voice called above the soft, grieve heavy hum that stirred along the walls.

Lalaith lifted her head to see a man clad in a dark cloak drawing near her. His face, framed by warm brown hair, the color of Faramir's, was beardless, all the more easily for Lalaith to see the tight line of his lips as he stopped before her, and offered her a quick bow.

"My lord," she returned, offering him a small curtsey in return.

"You are the great Elven lady from Imladris, of the House of Elrond, the lady Lalaith, who came with Mithrandir?" he asked her somewhat breathlessly, his eyes deep and troubled as they flittered over her face and the pointed tips of her ears.

"I am, my lord," she returned.

"I am Imrahil," he returned, again offering a quick bow. "A kinsman to-," he swallowed swiftly before he regained his composure. "To Faramir." He drew in a shuddering breath. "Come."

He turned quickly, nodding to her that she follow him. "Make way," he commanded, and to this, soldiers drew to the left and right, and as he squeezed his way toward the balustrade, Lalaith followed him until she found the stones of the parapet beneath her hand, rough and cool, her eyes finding the mounted soldiers in the distance, galloping ever nearer toward the broken remnants of Osgiliath.

"You remind me much of my daughter, Lothiriel," Imrahil murmured as he moved to stand in silence beside her, his mouth smiling, though his voice choked raggedly as he spoke. "She would have come, had I given her leave. Fearless and free spirited she has always been, climbing trees like a boy, riding horses bareback in the surf-," Imrahil chuckled softly to himself. "How my sweet Lothiriel loves horses, almost as if she were born to dwell in Rohan-," His expression faltered as he continued, "Glad am I, that she remains in Dol Amroth. Though if the fighting here goes ill-,"

He said no more. And Lalaith was content to let the silence remain as she gazed out over the grasses, finding Faramir at the head of his men.

"I pray that it will not, my lord," she murmured quietly.

Imrahil drew a shuddering breath inward. "Your elven sight is sharp and clear, my lady," he muttered, his attempt at lightness faded. "What of Faramir?"

Lalaith nodded, her eyes finding Faramir's helmet, his honey brown locks curling from beneath it. "I see him."

"Tell me when he falls," Imrahil murmured softly. And to this, Lalaith nodded as a hard lump formed in her throat.

The riders were drawing nearer to the western edge of Osgiliath, and among the ruins, Lalaith could see the darked mottled shapes of heads emerging to watch the approaching riders. Like a seething sea of ants the orcs appeared as they rose to meet the riders.

The mounted soldiers had not yet reached the ragged eaves of the shattered city, when the first hail of arrows flew from the bows of the orcs, and struck them, half of them falling from their mounts as they did. Faramir wavered in his saddle, but did not fall as on their rode, the blades of the men remaining flashing in the sun as a host of orcs swarmed at them.

Another hail of arrows smattered into the host of Gondorians, and a cracked sigh broke past Lalaith's lips as Faramir wavered, dropped his sword. His mount shuddered and stopped, half turning, as if unsure and in that moment, Faramir toppled from the saddle, and disappeared from her sight.

"My prince, Faramir has-," Lalaith choked, and could say no more, though Imrahil dropped his eyes, and nodded heavily, understanding her words.

His horse, sidestepping, as if dragging a weight upon one side, skittered fearfully across the grasses, unguided. But her eyes were no longer on Faramir's frightened mount, for the poor creature's master was dead now, and an empty hollow within her, pulse with pain. Her eyes, heavy though they were, trained upon the remaining soldiers who had formed a wedge, driving like a blade into the orcs that had come out to meet them. Their bright swords flashed in the waning light, and many orcs fell before them, though the wave of dark mottled forms did not withdraw at the brave stand the Men made, and came incessantly, fearlessly wave upon wave from the broken cracks of Osgiliath's ruins. Orcs fell swiftly, but Men fell as well, their horses' legs cut from beneath them, the riders swamped by dark bodies as they went down.

Like a black tide overwashing a mound of earth, the small island of men shrank, until one last standard bearer remained, young and fair of face, his dark hair curling from beneath his shining helmet weilding his bright sword with one hand as he held his flag high with the other until his mount collapsed under him, slain by an orc's blade, and his shining armor disappeared in a wave of dark bodies.

Lalaith could not see him, but she watched his banner, quivering like a straight reed above a flooding wave, all that remained of the Gondorians, but for a single stray horse, riderless and unmarred by the arrows of the orcs, trotting confused, upon the grasslands. She payed it no heed, her eyes drawn to the single remaining standard. The men and all the other horses were fallen, but for that one banner that remained above the surging sea of orcs. Until it shuddered, as if in a sudden pain of its own and slowly it began to tilt downward, drooping as if with its own fading life, until it too, was caught and dragged down by eager orcish hands, to be trammelled into the dust.

"They are all fallen," Lalaith whispered, to which Imrahil uttered a shuddering sigh, and fell upon his elbows on the balustrade.

In that moment, down from the high wall as above them, in the higher circles of the city, a slow bell began a somber, echoing toll that echoed long, and seemed to hang in the silent, heavy air.

...

Beside the path on which Calassë slowly walked, the stream laughed and gurgled as it trickled over rocks dancing merrily on its way to join the Silverlode. She could see her visage cast up at her from the undulating surface, and everytime her eyes turned upon her reflection, her heart leapt within her. She could not fathom why her own image would captivate her so, and she chided herself inwardly for her vanity. For truly, her companion, strolling along beside her, unhurried, clad in tunic and breeches of warm silver, a cream white cloak cast about his firm broad shoulders, was far more entrancing to gaze upon, she thought, than her own slight reflection.

She turned her eyes upon him at this thought, studying the chiseled lines of his his face softened in a contented expression, his deep grey eyes trained upon her own, unwavering, as if he had been silently hoping she would glance his way. He had seemed content not to speak during their leasurely walk but merely to watch her, offering her a shy smile now and again, as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Her heart grew warm now as their eyes met, unable to comprehend the warm weakness that stole over her limbs at the sight of him. Through his eyes, she saw the child Eärendil whom she had cared for so many centuries before. She had been his nurse, his protector. But now, he seemed in her eyes to be the elder, no longer in need of her protection, no longer a child. Indeed, Calassë thought to herself, feeling her cheeks warming with a light flush, he was most assuredly no longer a child.

"These woods have healed well since the orcs came, now these centuries past cutting down our trees," he murmured at last in a pleasant tone, nodding at the bright golden trees about them. "The last skirmish, happened not far from here, though now, one could not tell." His pleasant smile faltered suddenly and faded briefly at a new thought. "Your friend, Lady Lothirien, lost her father, the noble lord, Alcarion in that battle."

Calassë frowned softly, a troubled look coming over her face as a brief memory, stirred by his words, flitted across her thoughts. Softly, she whispered, "My father-,"

At her voice, though softly spoken, Elrohir's heart leapt suddenly, and his eyes darted to her face where she had stopped upon the trail beneath a beam of light that streamed through the parted branches overheard, falling over her hair and about her face, bathing her in an almost Valaric glow. Her head was bent downward, her fingers twined together as a soft breeze caught her golden hair, flitting it almost playfully about her head. Her eyes were lowered, her face, half turned from him, written in an expression of troubled confusion.

"Calassë?" he queried, leaning nearer to her, his hand coming to rest upon her small frail shoulder. "What of your father? You are beginning to remember?"

His heart grew heavy as her expression darkened, all that was in him, wishing that he could bring light to her eyes.

Without glancing up, without the slightest move, Calassë murmured in a lowered voice, "My father fell in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, for he would not retreat as the lord Huor commanded the Elves of Gondolin to do, but chose to fight beside him, and the Men of Dor-lómin. My mother died of grief not many days after the survivors returned. And I cannot remember her name, nor my father's, nor-,"

A single tear sparkled upon Calassë's lashes before it fell, trailing a line of wetness down her cheek. Elrohir watched its path, his heart pounding heavily within his chest. Could it be the Last Alliance the maiden spoke of? Surely it was that, her memory distorted from her time among the orcs.

"Glorfindel-," she breathed, a light flaring in her eyes before it faded and was gone, her misery returned, "held the rearguard of Turgon as they retreated-, he saw my father fall, an arrow in his throat where he stood beside your own grandsire, Huor-,"

She stopped, her voice grown tight with tears. _Glorfindel_, her mind echoed. That she could remember his face more clearly, her heart asking itself empty questions.

"I am sorry for you, Calassë," Elrohir whispered softly, drawing the maiden's lithe form against him, where she rested her head against his shoulder. "Many good men, of both kindreds, fell in-, in that great battle."

"Indeed," Calassë whispered quietly.

"Calassë, what else do you remember?" Elrohir murmured quietly, lifting a hand and touching her flushed cheek. Her eyes remained downcast, and he sighed, wondering if perhaps were he to speak of names she would recall, that her memories would turn from where they had strayed.

"Do you remember the High King, Gil-Galad, and Elendil, the king of Men who were slain also in that battle?"

"Ereinion Gil-Galad? The son of Fingon?" Her eyes lifted suddenly to his, and Elrohir smile a brief smile before he noted the stricken questions in her eyes. "But he did not fight in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Eärendil! His father was slain, but not he." She shook her head. "And who is Elendil?"

Elrohir sighed long, and dropped his eyes. Was her memory so lost? "Gil-Galad became High King of the Noldor after the fall of Gondolin, when Turgon was slain," he explained patiently, watching her eyes for some glimmer of recognition, though he could see none as she watched him, her eyes pleading and childlike. "He fell in the Last Alliance, slain by Sauron, before Isildur cut from Sauron's finger the One Ring that dark lord had forged, and defeated him-, for a time. Isildur was the heir of Elendil who was slain as well, the king of the exiles from Númenor. Do you not remember?"

"I remember nothing since the night Gondolin was overthrown, Eärendil," she murmured, her eyes bearing an almost frightened look in them now. "My memory of all that occurred between Gondolin's fall, and when my friends, dear Lothirien and her lord Haldir found me-, it is all black and void!" Her voice grew distressed. "You do not count me as wicked for this?"

"I do not!" Elrohir blurted swiftly, reaching for her, and catching her trembling shoulders in his hands. "Forgive me, forgive me, Calassë. I wished only to help you remember."

"I cannot remember that which I have never seen, my dear one," she choked, and at her distress, Elrohir pulled her against him once more, feeling the warmth of her trembling body pressed softly against the firm strength of his own, and he shuddered quietly at the quiet urgent warmth that stirred within him at the touch of her. "I know nothing of Elendil, or of Isildur or this Númenor of which you speak. I know nothing of any ring forged by that wicked servant of Morgoth. And I-, I did not know that such a great lord as Gil-Galad had been slain by that vile creature! You have seen it all, but I have not. How long has it been, two hundred, three hundred years since the fall of our city? And so many evil things have befallen our people? It is a wonder that any such lovely place as this Golden Wood can still flourish."

"It is because of the power of my grandmother that these woods remain golden and pure-,"

Once again, Calassë's eyes faltered, and she drew back again from his embrace. "Your-, grandmother? But the lady, Elenwë, and the lady Rían were both dead ere you were born-," her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "My friend, the lord Haldir told me that-, this golden wood is guarded by Naneth's power-," she faltered, her face flushing, embarrassed. "I mean to say, by the power of Lady Galadriel."

Elrohir swallowed softly. "Indeed it is," he muttered quietly, depleated, realizing that his unintentioned ruse was suddenly lost. Would she despise him now for not speaking the truth at first? Would her trust in him die?

"And Lady Galadriel is cousin to your mother," Calassë whispered thoughtfully, and sighed. "Of course. She is kin to you. It is no wonder that you would call her grandmother. It is no wonder that her wisdom lies within your eyes."

With a sigh, she moved back into the shelter of his arms, and though his heart was heavy, Elrohir eagerly drew her to him and bent his head over her own as she buried her head against his shoulder.

"There is much I do not know, Eärendil," she breathed, and the softness of her words washed his neck, sending trails of warmth shivering through him. "I do not know when I will remember all that I have forgotten. My father's name, my mother's name-, all that I cannot recall, that I see only as through a shroud of mist. But with you, here in your protection, I am not afraid." She sighed brokenly, and once again her breath washed his flesh, trailing deep through his sinews like warm sunlight upon his soul. Her fingers slender as sticks, pressed hard into his shoulder blades, her arms shivering as they tightened about his torso. "Do not let me go."

"_Ai_, my fair Calassë," he murmured, tightening his arms about her soft slender body, exulting in the pleasure of her soft form pressed so tightly against his own firm strength. Timidly, he bent his head, and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow as he whispered, "I could never let you go."

...

"Please, my lady, I beg of you, try at least, to swallow a bit more of this broth-,"

Ithilwen, blinking through her worried tears, sat at Arwen's side where Elrond's daughter lay upon her couch. Arwen's face was pale as death, her dark hair tumbling about her upon the pillows. Ithilwen's arm was beneath Arwen's head, tilting her up slightly, and the dark haired maiden, weak though she was, lifted her weary eyes toward Ithilwen's a look of deep sympathy in them as she swallowed obediently at the spoonful of weak broth lifted to her lips. But even that motion was taxing, and she shuddered, growing limp.

"No more," Arwen pleaded. And swallowing stiffly, Ithilwen drew her arm away, her lips trembling to see the maiden's weakness.

"Do not weep for me, dear friend Ithilwen," Arwen breathed, a tear touching the corner of her eye. "For it tears my heart to see your pain."

"It tears my heart to see you weakening, my lady," Ithilwen choked in return, shamed that Arwen's words of pleading only brought more tears to her eyes.

"It shall not be much longer," Arwen whispered, her voice sad, apologetic, her breath but a soft hiss upon her lips as her tear slipped from her eye. "I wish I could have seen him-, one last time."

"You shall see Lord Aragorn again, my lady!" Ithilwen cried, dropping to her knees and catching Arwen's cold hand, so very cold, within her own. "Please, I beg your, for his sake, endure this! For the sake of Lady Lalaith, to whom you have for so long, been sister and mother to! Surely it will not be long before the Ring is gone in the fire. Your strength will return to you, then. For the sake of those you love, my lady, please-,"

Ithilwen was weeping now, her forehead fallen against the bedside, against the rumpled folds of cool silk that lay there. She continued to clutch Arwen's cold hand as the other maiden's free hand, weak and frail, touched comfortingly against her golden tresses as the royal maiden, even in her weakness, struggled to offer her servant comfort.

"Lord Glorfindel must have found great favor in the eyes of the Valar to win the heart of so noble and lovely a maiden as you." Arwen cooed wearily.

Ithilwen lifted her eyes, her vision blurred with tears, though she managed a trembling smile as she sought the other maiden's pale face through her tears. A tired smile came to Arwen's face as the golden haired maiden touched a hand to Arwen's cold cheek.

"And Lord Aragorn is greatly blessed to have your love," she returned softly. "You shall see. This darkness will pass. He will become a great king of men. You shall become his bride, and your love will be as great as that of Beren and Lúthien of old."

Arwen smiled tiredly up at her, and closed her eyes in weary sleep. Ithilwen shuddered as more silent tears slipped down her face. Only in great sickness, or terrible weariness would an Elf sleep thusly.

"My lady, Ithilwen."

She turned quickly at the sound of Elladan's voice to see the elder of Elrond's sons, standing in the doorway beside Miriel his betrothed who stood beside him, her auburn hair caught back in a twined circlet of gold, their hands interwoven, their faces both written with weary anxiety.

"She is as before, my lord," Ithilwen returned, rising, and offering a short nod to the silver tray at the head of Arwen's bed. "No better, no worse. She took a bit of broth, and fell again into a deep sleep."

"Your unwearied care of my sister is to be commended, my lady," Elladan offered with a weary though thankful smile. "I shall not fail to speak of this with my father."

"You need not my lord," Ithilwen muttered, feeling color rise in her cheeks. "I have not done it for reward, but because she is my friend, and a noble lady."

"Nevertheless, your deeds have been most unselfish," Elladan returned warmly, his voice slightly broken with emotion. "Lord Glorfindel is greatly blessed to have won your gentle love."

Ithilwen smiled timidly at this, that Lord Elladan too, would speak of her beloved as if he, like his sister, could somehow sense the loneliness in Ithilwen's heart, though she had not spoken of her aching longing for him to return to her.

"Take some rest my dear friend," Miriel murmured now, coming forward, and pressing her hand as she offered Ithilwen a slim smile. "We shall sit with her for a time."

Nodding wordlessly to this, Ithilwen bowed her leave, and stepped out the door, making her way along the airy passage until she came to the pillar lined veranda that edged the great Homely House. Dead leaves skittered here and there over the stone tiles, and far below her, she could see the arching gateway where so long before it seemed, the Fellowship had departed, the lady Lalaith going as one of them, unwilling to be separated from her betrothed. Well did she understand now, the longing of Elrond's ward to remain near he whom she loved, Ithilwen sighed to herself.

The air seemed colder when Glorfindel was not near. The world bleaker, her tasks more wearying. Surely, she chided herself, as she stole softly along the portico hugging her arms to herself over her cream white gown; it was only because of her added worry with Arwen's waning strength.

She wished for nothing more than to see him again. To find herself once again wrapped in the tender strength of his arms, to taste the passionate caresses of his mouth, and revel in the promise that one day, he would be her own, when the world was brighter. He would seek her father's favor as he had promised, and then they would wed. And her flesh shivered warmly at the hope in their love.

A movement below her, beneath the gate, caught her eye, and her gaze flew downward, her heart catching on a beat at the figure that strode through, his bearing straight and unwearied, though an unmistakable longing rested in his eyes as he lifted his searching gaze.

His eyes found her own, and his chest swelled with such pleasure that Ithilwen felt her legs suddenly growing weak as he bounded across the courtyard, disappearing beyond the foliage that grew beneath the veranda where she stood. But she could hear his steps pattering swiftly up the steps that rose to the high porch. She had only begun to turn when Glorfindel appeared around the corner of the porch and stood at last before her, golden and beautiful as a young Vala, and her body trembled, warming at the sight of him. Long and free his golden hair hung about him like a mane, his flesh bearing the warm familiar glow it ever did as his broad chest rose and fell with exertion, and emotion as well, the firm muscles evident even beneath the cloth of his robe.

"I have been to the sea my lady," he breathed, a smile teasing at the corners of his sculpted lips. "I have seen our kin off, and now I have returned to you."

"My lord," Ithilwen breathed, and suddenly the tears began to flow. "I am glad of that. The lady Arwen has been unwell since her return, and I have been so-, weary and-,"

Glorfindel's face fell into a somber worried look at this, and he drew a step forward.

"I have missed you so, my dearest," she choked, struggling to regain her composure.

"_Ai_, Ithilwen," Glorfindel breathed. And suddenly she found herself enveloped in the warmth of his arms, her soft form fairly crushed against the strength of his firm, warm body. His lips pressed against her brow, and her own fingertips found the honed edges of his firm jaw as she lifted her face eagerly, finding the furtive warmth of his perfect mouth.

"Glorfindel, " Ithilwen sighed, gasping his name between his tenderly eager kisses. "Glorfindel, do not leave me again, do not let me go."

"Never again, my beloved," Glorfindel murmured, shuddering slightly as he leaned back slightly, only enough to catch her face in the gentle strength of his hands. "From here to Valinor, I will not let you go."


	36. Chapter 35

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 35**

**March 10, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 35

"Make way for the king! Make way!"

The call echoed above the shifting of leather harnesses and the rhythmic clink of metal as Legolas glanced over the ordered rows of tents, from his perch upon Arod's cream white back. Men of Rohan gathered here to Dunharrow, many clad in cloak and helm already, were scattered about, their faces written in grim and weary need as they saw to their various duties.

"The king is here!" voices called here and there, as the warriors of Rohan glanced up from their tasks toward the king's column as it trotted through the center of camp

"My lord!" a voice called out from among the shifting ranks of men and horses, to which Théoden raised an acknowledging hand.

"Hail to you, sire!" another called, the greeting returned by a lift of the king's hand.

"Grimbold, how many?" Théoden called to a man who stood among the tents, his face furrowed by many years, though he stood tall and straight as the young man beside him, a beardless youth, hardly more than a boy.

"I bring five hundred men from the Westfold, my lord!" the man called to him as the youth at his side, drawn up in all his young courage, offered a brief bow at the king's passing.

"We have three hundred more from Fenmarch, Théoden King!" another voice called.

"Where are the riders from Snowbourn?" Théoden called.

"None have come, my lord," a man's voice called.

Legolas furrowed his brow as Arod trotted through the camp, his eyes taking in all that surrounded him, seeing the desperate hope that touched the eyes of these men, who rose from their tasks to watch their king pass toward the high mountain, whereupon sat a high hanging valley, reached by a steep trail that rose from the valley floor, cutting back and forth across the face of the cliff in many switchbacks.

A breath caught in his lungs as his eyes lifted to the high mountain. Against the back of the bayed cliff that edged the high hanging ledge, the great mountain split, as if a giant axe had cloven the mountain in two. Legolas narrowed his eyes. Something about that high mountain pass brought a chill coursing through his heart-,

But he dropped his eyes away again. His heart was too weary to draw his worries and his thoughts away from Lalaith, and from reaching Minas Tirith as quickly as he might. And he turned his thoughts upon her, banishing the cold unease he felt away to a shadowed corner of his heart.

...

With Gimli at his side, Legolas strode through the tents set here upon the high windy ledge of the mountain, having left Arod tethered with a row of other horses near the king's tent. The usually brave, sturdy creature had been nervous, stuttering his steps, and lunging briefly after Legolas when he and Gimli had turned to leave him, almost like a frightened child hesitant to let his father leave him behind. Legolas had been reluctant to leave the faithful horse in his fright, though he knew he must, if his questions were to be relieved. Legolas had left Arod with a few soft words, and a gentle pat to his throat which had softened the horse somewhat before the Elf and Dwarf went seeking out Éomer, the king's nephew.

Legolas caught sight of the king's tall nephew bearing a hefty saddle in his arms as they came from beyond the billowing side of a tent, the horses here as jittery here as the ones they had left behind. Éomer acknowledged them with a glance as they strode near, setting the heavy saddle over the blunt end of a wide stake pounded down into the ground, and turned to greet them with a somber look.

"The horses are restless," Legolas breathed, stopping before the heir to Rohan's throne as Gimli shuffled to a halt beside him. "And the men are quiet."

"They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," Éomer returned in answer, lifting his brows as he glanced toward the misted cleft in the cliff which Legolas had noted earlier, a space no wider than that which could fit a horse and its rider through. Legolas glanced where Éomer indicated, his earlier trepidation returning now from the hidden corners of his heart.

"That road there," grumped Gimli beside him, leaning over the head of his axe, and nodding toward the narrow pathway. "Where does that lead?"

"It is the road to the Dimholt," Legolas softly blurted as the thought struck him, and a heaviness clouded his heart at the legend his father had often told him of as a child. "The door under the mountain." There hidden in the caverns of the mountain was the dwelling place of the traitorous souls of cowards and deserters, oath breakers doomed to walk the world in a living death in punishment for the pledge to Isildur broken, their souls sundered from their bodies, though unable to fully leave the realm of the living.

"None who venture there ever return," Éomer answered back, casting a heavy glance toward Legolas. "That mountain is evil."

He turned away then, making for a small group of his men, and Gimli started away as well, striding toward Aragorn who stood near one of the worn wedges of stone thrusting here and there out of the earth, peering down the narrow misted path, as if entranced. Legolas narrowed his eyes, following the ranger's gaze, through the mists that flittered about in the narrow gouge between the rocky slits of stone.

What was-? Legolas drew in a slow breath and narrowed his eyes at what Aragorn seemed to be watching, a half unseen image of-, what appeared to be the misted shape of-,

"Aragorn," Gimli blurted, clapping his leather gloved hand upon Aragorn's arm. The ranger spun suddenly, and the misted figure vanished like smoke upon the wind.

"Let's find some food," Gimli grumbled, and in spite of the heavy unsurity that settled now upon his heart, Legolas could not help but smile at Gimli's words. In truth, now that he thought on it, food would do him well, and he strode toward the ranger and the Dwarf as Aragorn turned his gaze from the cavernous pathway, a troubled look furrowing his brow.

...

The sky was a bed of black silk, scattered the bright specks of unnumbered diamonds overhead as Legolas sat half reclined against Arod's saddle, his fingers woven together across his chest as he contemplated the beauty of the stars, though none of them could equal in beauty the daughter of the one who had kindled them. He sighed, smiling briefly at this thought as his mind turned now upon Lalaith, hardly noting the intermittent snorts and wheezes that came from Gimli nearby who lay curled upon his ground blanket, having also chosen to make his bed under the stars.

Alone now, watching the bright specks of stars within the blackness above him, Legolas found himself missing Lalaith with an ache that penetrated to his bones as deep as any physical pain. Would that they were together, Legolas thought to himself. Would that he could fly to her as swiftly as the wind, and protect her from all that would do her ill-,

"Greetings, son of Thranduil." A somber voice, strong in spite of the weariness beneath it, interrupted Legolas' thoughts, shattering his half dreams, and jerking his sight away from the diamond stars. The softened, melodic tones of his own tongue he had not expected to hear in this place, and he leapt to his feet, taking in the cloak enshrouded figure who stood before him. One of the guards of the Rohirrim stood near, waiting, with the reigns of a familiar looking steed resting in his hands, Asfaloth, the swift footed steed from Imladris as the shadowed figure cast his cloak back for a brief moment, revealing his stern, somber features.

"Lord Elrond!" Legolas breathed, his mind casting about in wonder at what could have brought the lord of Imladris here as he offered a stiffened bow toward the shadowed figure.

Deep were Elrond's eyes, incomprehensible in their depths. They were fraught with urgency, though a narrow smile of greeting pulled at the corners of his mouth as Elrond stepped toward him and clapped a hand of greeting upon Legolas' shoulder.

"It is good to see you, my young prince," Elrond returned, his voice quavering slightly. "The sentries have told me of all that has befallen Lalaith, that she has gone now to Minas Tirith with Gandalf, and young Master Took-,"

Elrond glancing upward, his eyes shining with a brief touch of moisture. "Would that I could journey there with you, or at the least send my sons, but-," he tightened his jaw fiercely. "Elrohir has taken a journey of great import to the Golden Woods, and Elladan has stayed with his sister. For-, Arwen is not well."

Legolas drew in a deep breath. Though the Lord of Imladris said no more, Legolas could sense there was more than what he chose to say.

"Once I have sent Aragorn upon his task, I must return home with all speed," Elrond returned.

Legolas tilted his head briefly in question to which Elrond lifted from beneath his cloak, the concealed hilt of a sheathed sword.

"That is the hilt of Narsil-," Legolas whispered fiercely. "Broken ere I was even born-,"

"It has been reforged," Elrond murmured, shielding again, the sheathed sword beneath his cloak. Aragorn would be the one to unsheathe it, heir of mortal kings as he was.

"I have come to bid Aragorn to fulfill his destiny," Elrond murmured softly.

Legolas drew in a deep breath at this and felt the sudden weight of that thought settle on him, comforting and yet disconcerting at once. For even before Elrond spoke, Legolas suddenly understood the purpose of the great Elven lord's mission. Legolas glanced up swiftly, finding Elrond's eyes through the shadows of his hood. "You will bid him take the Dimholt road."

"Indeed," Elrond murmured somberly.

Legolas dropped his eyes for a brief moment. "_The dead awaken_," he murmured softly, remembering the ancient prophecy. "_For the hour is come for the oathbreakers._"

Elrond sighed and nodded at these words. "The words of Malbeth, the seer, shall be fulfilled in Aragorn." He swallowed stiffly. "I must take my leave of you, now. Fare well, young Prince." He paused briefly, his jaw twitching slightly. "And send my love and my greetings to Lalaith, when next you meet her."

"I will, my lord," Legolas returned, with a slight bow of his head as Elrond pulled his hood once again over his face, and turned toward the armored guard.

"Forgive my delay," Elrond murmured mildly in the Common Tongue to the Man. "Lead on."

"Yes, my lord," the soldier murmured with a bow, and turned away, clutching the reigns of Asfaloth with Elrond following his lead, toward the door of the king's tent.

"I will present you before the king, my lord," the guard murmured reverently, "and then bid Lord Aragorn come to you."

Elrond nodded silently to this, as the two men disappeared within the tent, the sentry's muffled voice announcing Elrond's presence.

"Er-," behind him, Gimli's snoring was broken abruptly as the Dwarf shook himself awake, and sat up, as if dazed. "I just had the most odd dream, Legolas! I dreamed we had taken that haunted road-,"

"Come, Gimli," Legolas urged, striding to him, and offering him his hand, jerking the Dwarf quickly to his feet. "We must go and ready Arod."

"Ah, what?" Gimli shook himself. "Why?"

"Because-," Legolas' words trailed away as he turned to see Aragorn's shadow striding sleepily after the guard who had bidden him, toward the king's tent. "Because Aragorn will take the very road of which you have dreamt."

Gimli blinked. Gimli stared. His mouth fell slightly open. "How do you know this?" he demanded.

"I will explain everything," Legolas returned with a short smirk. "But come, quickly. He may try to leave without us, wishing to spare us the weight of his duty. But we will not let him, will we?"

"Mrrrgh," Gimli grunted, a grin peeling across his mouth beneath his beard. "The lad's not going to be able to lose us, even if he wished to."

"Indeed not," Legolas grinned. He clapped his hand upon Gimli's shoulder, and turned him toward the line of horses where Arod stood, his cream white coat shining like silver in the wane light of the stars.

...

Aragorn, his heart heavy, led Brego quietly through the lines of tents. He had just left Éowyn weeping quietly, a thought which did not rest well upon his thoughts. Such a noble, brave maiden deserved happiness. Would that her eyes could light with joy once again, for if any woman upon Arda deserved happiness, that noble, brave maiden did. Would that there was some man in this world who could awaken the great love of which her young heart was truly capable-,

"Just where do you think you're off to?" an unexpected voice called from beside him, and Aragorn turned, a determined breath swelling in his chest. The danger and the road he was to take, was his task alone.

"Not this time," he returned, shaking his head. "This time you must stay, Gimli."

"Hrmm," Gimli muttered thoughtfully leaning over his axe as the soft plod of other hooves drew near, and Aragorn turned to meet Legolas' eyes as the Elf smiled mischeviously at him beside Arod's head, the cream white horse already saddled and bridled.

"Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?" Legolas grinned.

"You might as well accept it. We're going with you, laddie," Gimli grumbled, to which Aragorn could do little more than draw in a reluctant sigh, succumbling willingly to defeat to his friends.

...

Their departure was creating no small stir, Legolas noted, as their mounts drew near toward the shadowed cleft in the cliff. And he worried for the Rohirrim briefly, the eyes of the Men following them with questions. They clearly did not understand Aragorn's departure, especially on this, the eve of battle. But Théoden was their king, Legolas reminded himself. He would lead them well.

His thoughts turned back upon his own duty, his heart growing shadowed as the darkness of the narrow pass closed over their heads.

"Lord Aragorn!" a young soldier called from behind them. But they were already swallowed up within the shadow, and the voice was faint, dying away among the rocks and stones of the dark cliffs that now surrounded them.


	37. Chapter 36

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 36**

**March 14, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 36

Éowyn stared into the empty dawn that had not yet risen, her arms folded tightly as the soft morning wind tugged plaintively at her hair and the flowing sleeves of her dress. Her heart felt empty, void of feeling. Nothing but a hollow shell, now that Aragorn had spurned her.

Had Aragorn been harsh in his rejection of her hinted admission of her feelings for him the night before, it would have been easier to bear. But the kindness that he showed her, when he, so gently touched her cheek, the fingers warm against her flesh, and murmured, in such, soothing, brotherly words, "_I have wished you joy since first I saw you_," felt like a dagger in her heart, even now.

_Joy_? Éowyn wondered inwardly. What joy could be had, now? Indeed, how could she ever feel joy again, now that he had so gently yet undeniably rejected her? He, who had come to her in her darkest hour, when she had thought she would go mad with helplessness, her brother banished, and her uncle bent and warped by Gríma's poison? He had brought light with him, and powerful allies, the wizard Gandalf not the least of them, who had drawn her uncle, as well as the entire country of Rohan, from the black clutches of Saruman. She had felt something from her first sight of him. A hope that had long been dead within her. It had only grown warmer as she came to know the noble man he was, one who would one day be a great king of Men. Already, he led well, by his own courage, for he was the first into battle, the last to leave-, fighting boldly and selflessly for her people, though they were not his own kin. Who could not help but love such a man as he? But he did not love her back. And now her uncle and brother were going away, most likely, to die, Éowyn had no joy within her.

She felt a movement behind her, and then the solid, sturdy warmth of her uncle moved near her arm.

"I have left instruction," he murmured quietly, striding past her, his own eyes focused upon the slowly rising dawn. "The people are to follow your rule in my stead." He paused long, and turned at last to her, his hair caught in a halo against his head in the golden light of the hidden sun. His eyes were immeasurably gentle, reminding her so of Aragorn's gentle eyes. "Take up my seat in the Golden Hall. Long may you defend Edoras if the battle goes ill."

Éowyn drew in a low breath, the air cool within her lungs. "What other duty would you have me do, my lord?" she murmured numbly, shamed now, that tears were pricking her eyes.

"Duty?" her uncle whispered, his fatherly eyes narrowing with concern, and with a shake of his head, he stepped nearer to her. "No," he whispered as he drew near, and took up her hands, so small and pale within his, Éowyn thought to herself.

She watched her uncle's face, so familiar to her, as he studied her limp, cold hands, warming them between his large, calloused palms.

"I would have you smile again," he whispered softly, lifting his eyes to meet hers. Éowyn shivered quietly at this, her lips managing a faint smile as he gently squeezed her hands. "Not grieve, for those whose time has come."

Her eyes fell slightly at this, her mouth opening, though she could think of nothing to say. So easy it was, for one riding to his probably death to tell her not to grieve, when she would be left behind, bereft of those she cared so very much for.

"You shall live to see these days renewed," Théoden hissed, his voice deep, and laced with painful hope. He drew his hands from hers, and her arms fell limply to her sides as he reached up, and took her face between his hands, pressing his brow gently to her own. "And no more despair," he breathed softly.

No more despair, Éowyn wondered to herself. Could such a thing ever be? The words her uncle spoke, almost made her believe that a day could come, when she awoke in joy and hope, to a golden dawn. But she could not see it now.

Especially now as she felt her secret thoughts forming within her mind, her resolve only hardened by Aragorn's rejection. The sword and the armor she had brought, hidden, the leather headguard that would cover Windfola's brow, and hide the star her kinsmen would recognize-, She could only pray secretly that her uncle, thinking she would remain safe, behind, could one day forgive her for what she had resolved to do.

...

The cliffs, covered in sparsh brush, rose high and white and ragged on either side of their small party, calling to Legolas' mind the brittled bleached bones of some vast creature long dead. There was little sound in the narrow crevace through which their horses wound on the path, aside from Gimli's stifled breathing behind him, and the soft clomp of hooves upon stone.

Softly, Gimli shifted his weight behind him before muttering in a tone one of fearful reverence, "What kind of army would linger in such a place?"

"One that is cursed," he returned softly. A cold wind sifted about them as the stony path led deeper into the shadowed caverns. It smelt of age and mold, and dead things. He could feel eyes upon him, unseen, watching as if from behind the walls of the stone cliffs as they drew farther down the path.

"Long ago, the Men of the mountains swore an oath to the last king of Gondor, to come to his aid. To fight. But when the time came, when Gondor's need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain. And so Isildur cursed them never to rest, until they had fulfilled their pledge."

The words he had spoken with Lord Elrond when they had met the night before, came back to him now. The words of Malbeth the Seer in the days of Arvedui of which he had been taught as a boy, that Lalaith had often read to him, from the books in her uncle's study, returned powerfully to him now, and softly, in a voice deepened with weight and great import, he spoke the ending lines of the prophecy:

"_Who shall call them  
>from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?<br>The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
>From the north shall he come, need shall drive him:<br>He shall pass the Door into the Paths of the Dead_."

Long his words hung in the chill of the air, the cold wind hissing about them as if those silent ones who watched from behind the stones stirred in thought at the words.

Behind him, Gimli shuddered softly. "Ogh," he muttered softly. "The Paths of the Dead. It is a foul name, and little to the liking of one who yet desires to draw breath. Can the living use such a road, and not perish? Dark ways we take, I do not doubt."

"You need not follow, Gimli," Aragorn called from Brego's back, ahead of them. "Only of your free will would I have you come, for you will find both toil and great fear, and maybe even worse."

"I will go with you, Aragorn," Gimli called out, his voice braver now, as if encouraged by Aragorn's words, though his gloved fist tightened about his axe. "Even on the Paths of the Dead, and to whatever end that may lead."

"I also come willingly," Legolas added with a slim smile.

"Though this path takes you further from Lalaith?" Aragorn asked, casting over his shoulder a briefly humored glance.

"Though it may delay me for a time, it will, in the end, bring me to her," Legolas found himself answering swiftly. "And we will come to Minas Tirith with greater aid than we otherwise would have."

"If the Dead will be freed from their curse," Gimli grumbled. "If not-,"

He said no more, though his unfinished words hung long in the chilled air over them, which grew all the more cold as Aragorn, turned Brego's head down a shadowed, rocky cavern, edged by several scraggled, and long dead trees.

Legolas did not wish to think of the Dead refusing Aragorn's call for them to fulfill their oath, and free themselves from their curse. Without their aid, the corsairs who were coming in their black ships, persuaded by Sauron's wicked bribes, would sail, unchecked, up the Anduin to Minas Tirith, by then, wounded and bleeding from its wounds inflicted by the orcs, and would drive the death blow into her heart. The courageous Rohirrim, the Men of Edoras with whom he had struck friendship, Men easily moved to much humor and whimsy, yet their hearts were also noble and couragous-, they would all of them, be cut down in the plains before the city. And all within the circling tiers of Minas Tirith would be slain soon after. He could not think of failing them. He could not think of failing her. Legolas shut his mind to the thought, and turned it upon his task, now. For fearful though it was, it held no such pain as the thought of failing Lalaith, held for him.

Around a jutting stone set like a finger of doom in the center of their path, the shadowed arch of a doorway at the base of the cliff moved into their view. The horses whinnied and stopped, refusing to pass the rock, and the three riders swiftly dismounted then, Legolas catching Arod's reigns in his hand, and whispering a few Elvish words to the frightened beast as Aragorn led Brego past the imposing knife of rock, and he, with Arod's reigns in his hand, and Gimli hurrying beside, followed the ranger nearer to the yawning, black doorway. Set within the great stone lintel, were several ancient skulls, and piled in crevaces upon one side and the other to the shadowed doorway, were piled other skulls, unnumbered. But to these, Legolas' eyes were not drawn. Rather, his eyes lifted to the worn and ancient figures scoured in black, above the doorway as their small group dismounted.

His throat tightened briefly at what he read there as he led Arod on by the reigns, his bones chilled within him as Gimli muttered, "The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away,"

Legolas well understood the Dwarf's whispered words as he drew ever closer to the darkened doorway through which seemed to emit a bitter cold.

"`_The way is shut_,'" he murmured aloud, reading now, the black etched pictorgraphs above the doorway. "_It was made by those who are dead. And the Dead keep it. The way is shut_."

As if in answer to his words, a chill breath air, carried upon a cold wind, moaned through the doorway as if it seeped from the throats of ghosts unseen.

Brego and Arod snorted in fear at this, and Arod reared upward, as Brego did, wrenching his reigns from Legolas' hand.

"Hey, Arod!" Gimli cried beside him, but neither horse heeded the cry as they bolted down the shadowed cavern, and disappeared around a bend of rock.

"Brego!" Aragorn called, but his faithful companion was already gone.

Legolas let out a sigh as the clatter of their hooves faded back the way they had come. His brow furrowed as he glanced down where Arod had disappeared. Legolas could not deny that he felt somewhat hurt by the horses' abandonment of them, but he could not be angry, for he well understood their fear. And truly, they need not come with them upon the peril of the Paths of the Dead. In truth, Legolas was glad now, that Lalaith was not here. For though it was unseen, perhaps they now faced greater peril than she did.

Setting his will firmly, Legolas turned back toward the door as Aragorn and Gimli did, also.

Beside him, Aragorn's jaw was firmly set against the chilled fear that seemed to seep from the very stones about them.

"I do not fear death," Aragorn seethed fiercely. And with these words, the hilt of Andúril clenched within his fist, the Man strode into the cold wind of the darkness, and disappeared.

Legolas only hesitated a moment longer. _For Lalaith_, his heart breathed. And with his resolve set, he strode into the darkness after Aragorn, and it swallowed him up.

"Well, this is a thing unheard of!" he heard Gimli moan from behind him. "An Elf with go underground, where a Dwarf dare not! Ooh. Oh, I'd never hear the end of it."

At the sound of Gimli's boots scuffing over the chill of the stone threshhold, Legolas turned within the chilled, shadowed tunnel of rough uneaven rock, toward the bright slash of light behind him, awaiting Gimli as the frightened Dwarf stumbled closer, still somewhat blinded by the shadows his eyes had not yet grown accustomed to.

"Courage, Gimli," he offered gently, his hand coming down upon Gimli's shoulder as the blinded Dwarf began to stumble past.

"Oh!" Gimli cried out, his voice humorously shrill for a brief moment before he noted the shadow of the Elf standing beside him.

Legolas was glad Gimli could not see his teasing grin as Gimli eased at the sight of his friend.

"Come my friend, let us hurry on toward Aragorn." Legolas nodded ahead, some space down the rocky, uneaven corridor where a light had been struck. "Aragorn has lit a torch. That should give you some comfort."

"Comfort?" Gimli grumped. "Pagh! I'm fine."

"Would you rather I crush the torch out then?" Aragorn asked lightly from ahead of them, flashing Legolas a bemused half grin, which the Elf could see through the shadows, though Gimli could not, yet.

"Ah, wha- no, no. That's not necessary," Gimli was quick to sputter out as he jogged noisily toward the torch bearing Man, and Legolas came striding behind, thoughts and memories of Lalaith giving him courage to face whatever lay ahead of them, down the mist filled tunnels.

...

"Ho, there, Master Hobbit," a youthful voice called amist the noise and flurry of the morning as warriors girded their armor about them, and saddled their anxious horses.

Standing before his small white pony, Stybba, whom he had grown mightily fond of.

Turning his head, Merry glanced up in surprise at the young man who came striding near, long yellow hair tumbling about his youthful face. A boy he was, in truth, taller than Merry, but not by much, and not yet bearded.

"Hullo, there," Merry muttered, turning to greet the smooth faced youth. The boy wore no armor, but a rough, workaday tunic, and dusty breeches. "What's your name?"

"I am Haleth," the boy greeted with a terse grin, stopping a few paces before him. "And you are Meriadoc, the Hobbit."

Merry's eyes darted over the boy's plainly clad form. "You're not going to fight?"

"Alas, I am not old enough," Haleth returned with a short sigh. "I fought at Helm's Deep, but that was only in great need. I came only to aid the warriors, and then I will return to Edoras with Lady Éowyn, and the few others who will remain to take down the tents, and break camp. There, we will wait for-," Haleth gulped, and his smile fell briefly. "I will fight there, if the battle does not go well for the elder Men."

"I'm going Minas Tirith," Merry murmured hopefully, patting Stybba's nose.

Haleth furrowed his brow, glancing over the small Hobbit's armored form in an expression of humored disbelief. "But you're small even, than me."

"But I'm older," Merry was quick to shoot back. "And surely the king will let me." He straightened himself importantly. "Théoden King made me an esquire of Rohan. So surely he will let me go to fight."

Haleth shrugged wordlessly, his mouth twisted in a silent smirk though his expression grew more still as the king, mounted upon his own horse, Snowmane, came trotting near, flanked by his nephew Éomer, and several guards, bearing standards that, whipped in the air above their heads.

Haleth offered the king a short bow and drew a step back as the king drew near, and turned his gaze down upon Merry.

"Little Hobbits do not belong in war, Master Meriadoc," Théoden said gently, though the words stabbed Merry's heart.

He glanced up into the king's face, anxious now. Surely he would not be left behind?

"But all my friends have gone to battle," he protested swiftly. "I would be ashamed to be left behind."

"It is a three day gallop to Minas Tirith," Théoden returned, his words still kindly, though his voice now carried a tone of unbending authority. "And none of my riders can bear you as a burden."

Merry shook his head. This could not be! "I want to fight!" he argued.

The king pursed his lips, his demeanor still gentle, though his words were ever more stern. "I will say no more," Théoden finished at last, and he turned his head away, nudging Snowmane into motion. Down the slant of stoney earth Théoden's mount trotted, Éomer near upon his heels, and then he was gone.

Behind the small Hobbit, Haleth let out a low sigh of sympathy. The small man, full grown though he was, was not taking easily to being left behind like a young boy, he could see as Merry took a step forward, watching the king's retinue clatter away down the sloping path. But what else was there to do? The king had given him and order.

"Come, Master Hobbit, you may help me with my tasks," Haleth offered, turning away to gather up a hastily dropped cloak, discarded in haste, by one of the riders. Behind him, several warriors were clattering past, the small gasp of surprise from the Hobbit lost amidst the hurried clomping of hooves. "I am to help strike the tents, and see to Lady Éowyn's orders-,"

Haleth's words stopped upon a heartbeat as he turned back, thinking he would see the Hobbit still standing there beside the small pony, Stybba. But he was gone. And as Haleth glanced one way and then the other, seeking for him, he could see him nowhere, as horses continued to clatter past.

"Master Meriadoc?" he called, but no voice answered him.

...

Dank, the tunnel was, moist and chill, and filled with aged silence as Legolas followed near behind Aragorn down the misty passageway, lined here and there, with the dried skeletons of Men long dead, laying within hollows upon the wall. Gimli's breath was sharp and fierce as he came stumbling behind, hurrying to keep up with the Man and the Elf. Down one narrow corridor, lay a thick layer of skulls upon the floor, but that was not their path. Beneath the silence, Legolas could hear an endless whisper of voices all about him, a murmur of words in no tongue he had ever learned. And all about him, behind them, and before them, just beyond the reach of the torchlight, Legolas could see shadowed forms, forests of spears-,

"What is it?" Gimli hissed, sensing somehow, Legolas' heightened apprehension. "What do you see?"

"I see shapes of men," he hissed back beneath the whispering silence. "And of horses."

"Where?" Gimli demanded, glancing about himself, furtively, seeking in vain for the misted shapes beyond the damp clouds that swirled about them in the torchlight, shapes that with his own Elven sight, Legolas could barely see, himself. They gave way to the torchlight, fading back into the rock, only to return as the torchlight past, swelling the numbers that followed behind, like the whispering feet of leaves before a cold wind.

"Pale banners like shreds of cloud," Legolas continued, seeing the misted shapes in the distance, bits of ragged haze clinging in tatters of mist to dim standards as the ghost men rode before and behind them beyond the torchlight upon their spectral horses. "Spears rise, like winter thickets through a shroud of mist."

To this, the hiss and murmur of the misted shapes behind them, seemed to swell like the voice of a chilled breeze.

"The Dead are following," he murmured, his brow furrowing at the chilling thought. "They have been summoned."

"The Dead? Summoned?" Gimli's voice cried out from behind him as Legolas strode on after Aragorn. "I knew that."

Legolas, in spite of the chill that touched his heart, met Aragorn's turned eyes at these words the Dwarf tried to speak so manfully, and nonchalantly, though the fear was still beneath his tones.

"Very good," the Dwarf muttered. "Very good-, Legolas!" he cried suddenly, realizing only now, how far behind he had fallen, and his boot feet came sprinting suddenly near, drawing closer toward the flickering torchlight.

But what was this misty, unearthly place they were moving through now? Legolas had never seen such a mist as this, ghostly spectral hands groping upward at them, as if they wished drawn them down into the stones where the bones of these ghosts rested. And now, as a soft crunch fell beneath Aragorn's foot, Legolas glanced down, seeing the floor littered with dried skulls.

His own boots trod lightly over them, leaving the bones he passed over unbroken, but the bones beneath Aragorn's feet and Gimli's crackled with each step.

"Do not look down," Aragorn commanded from before him, to which Legolas turned, seeing Gimli paused, his mouth drawn open in a small circle as he blinked, painfully, then, as Legolas guessed he would, glanced down toward his feet, nonetheless.

Gimli took a painful step then, flinching as the bones crunched beneath his heavy boots. Another step, and another crunch followed as the Dwarf staggered painfully forward until at last, he gave up on his struggle to walk noiselessly, and simply broke into a jog, flinching as he trotted, crunching and crackling over the bed of dried bones, rushing to keep up with Legolas who beckoned swiftly to him as Gimli's eyes glanced pleadingly toward him.

"Come, Gimli," he murmured encouragingly as the Dwarf drew near, and clapped a hand upon his friend's shoulder, hurrying him ever faster.

"How is it, that they don't break under _your_ feet?" Gimli moaned. But to this, Legolas could only manage a brief smile.

At last, the bed of bones beneath their feet ended, and the floor of the narrow cavern once again became smooth.

A look of undeniable relief came over Gimli's face, and Legolas' comforting arm fell from his shoulder as he hurried on behind Aragorn as the Man rounded a sharp corner, and suddenly found himself within a vast chamber. The shadows whispered more swiftly than before, here in this great empty space. Away to the left, something glittered in the gloom. A skeleton, as the others had been, lay supine in a corner between the jagged wall and a jutting ledge of stone beside which a set of ragged steps let up to a great arching doorway of stone, shut fast. But unlike the others, this skeleton was clad in mail, and still his harness lay there, whole. A notched and broken sword lay by him.

To their right, a deep and hollow crevice fell into blackness, where mist swirled in its dark empty depths.

"_Who enters my domain_?" a voice echoing through the vast emptiness, demanded above the whisper of speechless voices about it.

And spinning, Legolas turned toward the ragged steps where a shadowed figure, faint at first, slowly formed from the shadows, and came clear. A man, clad in cloak and armor and crested helm, grinned fiercely at them, his eyes but hard beads of light within an empty skull.

"One who will have your allegiance," Aragorn breathed.

"The Dead to not suffer the living to pass," the skeletal spectre seethed in return.

"You will suffer me," Aragorn hissed fiercely toward the shadowed ghost.

A laugh, discordant and harsh, echoed from the spectral throat, growing in power as it echoed through the dark chamber, and now, echoing voices, harsh in rasping laughter echoed the first from beyond the black chasm. Legolas spun, Aragorn with him, as the far wall grew in a green glow, outlining misted arches and doorways, steps and paths unseen before, the dead that had followed them through the corridors now drawing out of the stone of the wall, wafting toward them, nearer and nearer, across the empty chasm. From Aragorn's sharply drawn breath, and Gimli's soft grunt of muted surprise, Legolas could tell now, that they could see them as well.

"_The way is shut_," the spectral king hissed, echoing the words Legolas had read upon the lintel of the skull etched doorway. "_It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it._"

To these words, even more ghosted shapes of warriors seeped from the stones of the walls, marching forward, toward the three men.

"_The way is shut_," the helmed ghost seethed, drawing nearer, a sinister grin upon his empty face. "_Now, you must die_."

Legolas heart leapt in him at these words. Die? Here, where light could never reach, where hope would fade black into the abyss at his feet? Where Lalaith was not? No, it would not be so! With this, he raised his bow, snatching an arrow from the quiver, and releasing it into the spectre's face. It parted through his head as through a mist, leaving the ghost unhurt, his seething grin drawing ever closer as Aragorn dropped the torch he had borne to the stone at his feet.

"I summon you to fulfill your oath," the ranger continued, undaunted by the chill that only increased as the ghostly army drew its noose tighter about the three.

"_None but the king of Gondor may command me_!" barked the ghostly king, striding near as Aragorn lifted the blade of Andúril which shone in the gloam like a beacon of hope.

The ghost's spectral blade swung, met with an echoing clang by Andúril, halting its deadly blow, and spinning the raised blade downward.

"_That line was broken_!" the ghost barked.

Aragorn's fist shot out, catching the spectre by his throat, clutching as if upon something solid, though the dead bones and hanging flesh had not been halted by Legolas' arrow.

"It has been remade," Aragorn returned with furious calm before he thrust his undead foe back toward the line of his misted comrades.

"Fight for us," Aragorn continued, his eyes scanning the misty assemblage, that stood back now, looking on through hollow eyes, silent and unsure, not that their king had been bested by one of the living. "And regain your honor." He stepped forward, nearer to them, fearless. "What say you?"

He strode through their silent midst, glancing from one empty face to another. "What say you?" he repeated.

"Agh, you waste your time, Aragorn," Gimli called out. "They had no honor in life, they have none now, in death."

Legolas' eyes turned to glance at the Dwarf, seeing him through a line of transparent soldiers. Many ghosts stirred silently at Gimli's caustic words, but none dared draw near the Dwarf. The dead dared not to hurt them, now. And at the thought, a wave of hope washed over Legolas' heart. Would they then submit their wills to Aragorn's lead? Would they fight for him?

"I am Isildur's heir," Aragorn continued. "Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled." Turning toward the ghost king, upon whose empty face a humorless grin still clung, Aragorn cried, in a voice that echoed long through the chamber, "What say you?"

The helmed ghost said no words, though he laughed again, the same harsh, dissonant laugh as before as he and his men faded back into the stones from which their spectral shapes had emerged.

"You have my word!" Aragorn cried, though they continued to fade. "Fight! And I will release you from this living death!" The laughter continued, and the ghostly soldiers seeped back into the stones. "What say you?" They were gone.

"Stand, you traitors!" Gimli shouted, fuming.

A cold wind, chill and dank, swept the mist from beneath their feet as the stones beneath them began to tremble.

His heart caught upon a beat, and the hope that he had allowed himself to feel in the moments before, faded as he spun toward the high doorway as the stone walls upon either side of the high carven doorway broke away, and a vast avalanche of boulders and dried, cracked skulls came tumbling downward.

"Out!" cried Aragorn, but Legolas was already in motion. He grasped Gimli's arm, pushing him ahead of him, just as the cascade of skulls, struck them, dried and musty with the dust of untold ages stirring in the air above them as they tumbled over the edge of the chasm into the depths below.

Was the fate the Dead wished for them, to be pushed by their own dried bones into the distant depths below? For what other purpose was this sudden fall of stones to be meant for? Legolas did not think longer on this, focusing his thoughts only on reaching the far door as the three of them struggled through the dried and musted river of skulls.

"Legolas!" he heard Aragorn's voice call from somewhere ahead as Legolas struggled behind the stumbling Dwarf, pushing him ever onward, before him. And at last they were free of the tumbling bones, though the stones continued to crack and fall about them. The cave was collapsing, and they needed to escape.

"Run!" Aragorn cried, echoing Legolas' own thoughts, and darted down the tunnel through which Legolas could see light, bright unbroken sunlight, and smell the distant tang of-, he could not place the scent, but it was a welcome one as he paused, realizing Gimli was not before him. A heavy jagged edged boulder tumbled before his path. In a distant corner of his mind, he realized he would have been crushed, had he not glanced back to see to his friend's safety but Legolas did not pause to realized how close he had come to death as he pushed Gimli on ahead of him, and they sprinted toward the blessed sunlight, and the sweet tang wafting in on the breeze that plucked strangely at the strings upon his heart.

The warm, tangy scent hit him full in the face as they staggered out at last, into the sunlight, upon the high ledge of a great mountainside, and Legolas paused to catch his breath, turning to ensure himself that Gimli was still coming behind him, and he was, puffing and wheezing, and staggering into the sunlight.

Below them, off the feet of the mountainside upon which they stood, there sat a high hill, upon which was a black domed rock. The Stone of Erech, which Legolas remembered of from his lessons as a youth, and the books Lalaith had often read to him, from her uncle's study. Beyond that, in the dim distance, was a wide river. The Morthond, which flowed down from the mountains. But were it the Anduin-, Legolas shuddered at the thought, drawing in a breath of despair, the weight of the failure settling now upon him as the heat of their flight from the cave faded from his veins. Were it the Anduin, he would see the black ships of the corsairs, sailing up its wide course, toward Gondor, toward Lalaith, bringing death with them.

As if plagued with the same haunting image in Legolas' mind, Aragorn fell heavily to his knees, his eyes fixed upon the river below.

Wordless, Legolas drew up behind him, and clapped his hand upon the Man's shoulder. His heart sank in his chest. What was he to do now? What were they all to do?

A distant sound, recalling to Legolas' mind the sound of fluid seeping through rock, hissed at them from behind them growing steadily louder until Aragorn detected it too, and rose, a look of wonder upon his face as the green mist of the helmed king of the oath breakers seethed out of the very stone behind him, and strode forward, his cold, glowing gaze fixed fiercely upon Aragorn's face.

Once again, hope unlooked for, leapt within Legolas' heart, and he drew in a swift breath as the spectre stared into Aragorn's eyes and hissed, "_We fight_."

...

Twilight within the sheltered wood of Lothlórien had never seemed so fair a place to Elrohir as he walked upon a smooth earthen path, Calassë's slender arm looped through his as they strolled in companionable silence. The silver lamps of the many flets filtered down through the leaves of the trees, alighting upon her face, and bathing her in gentle radiance. Her hair seemed etched in lines of silver, and her very flesh seemed to glow. Her soft lips were curved upward in a slight smile that set Elrohir's heart to pounding, their eyes meeting now and again as they shared a brief smile.

"Have any memories been returning to you at all, my lady?" he asked, breaking the silence at last, to which Calassë sighed long.

"No more than that which I spoke of with you, before," she murmured, tipping her head so that it rested upon his shoulder, her slender form straining nearer to him as if for comfort as the path they trod, dipped down a shallow rill, and the lights of Caras Galadhon faded through the trees behind them. "Strange that I can remember so much, yet I cannot remember my father or mother's names, or who my kin could be-,"

"Well, one day, when the world is safe once again, I shall take you to meet Lord Glorfindel," Elrohir offered, his arm willingly circling about her shoulders, and drawing her every closer to him as the silver shadows grew warm about them. "He will doubtless, know who you are, and perhaps meeting him will help you remember more."

Calassë said nothing, though she nodded, and sighed, her own arm tightening across his back.

"Until then," Elrohir murmured softly, "I have you all to myself."

Calassë seemed to sense the unspoken emotion in his words, and drew to a stop, lifting her eyes to his.

"And I am glad of that," she breathed, ducking her head. "It has been but few days since our first meeting in these woods, but in truth, I have never forgotten you, my dearest, beloved Eärendil-,"

"I am-, beloved to you?" Elrohir queried softly, the still warm air of night seeming to shimmer between them with unspoken emotion as he drew nearer to her, and lifted a hand, touching her cheek with his fingertips, gently lifting her face so that their eyes once again met.

"Of course," Calassë offered, laughing lightly. A laugh which Elrohir could not help but join in on. Oh, how he wished to make her happy!

"You have been treasured in my heart, all your life, my dearest," Calassë breathed softly. "I have loved you truly since the day you were born, loved you in many ways. I did not forget you, even during my time among the-,"

Her words came to an abrupt halt, and a troubled look crossed her face.

Elrohir tightened his hands upon her arms to reassure her. She was beginning to remember again, he realized from the look upon her face. Her captivity, and all that had befallen her-,

"My lord!"

The voice shattered the quiet like a stone cast into a quiet pond as Rumil came dashing suddenly through the trees, gasping hard, his eyes fierce and wild.

Calassë gasped at the suddenness of his voice, and darted behind Elrohir's shoulder before his hand grasping hers, reassured her, and she came ducking from behind him to study Rumil with chagrin in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my lady," Rumil gulped, noting the fear he had caused her, to which she nodded her forgiveness.

"Rumil, my friend, what is it?" Elrohir burst in return.

"A host from Dol Guldur has invaded the eastern edge of the forest!" came the quiet reply. "Your grandfather bids you come to him."

Elrohir's eyes darted swiftly to Calassë's, his heart wrenching at the sudden wild fear that claimed them.

"They are coming for me," she hissed, her eyes like those of a fearful child's. "They will take me away again! They will-,"

Ragged pain flashed across her face, her eyes widened and her face grew taut with a sudden pain, a look of terror mingled with wrenching misery.

"No, Calassë, they will not hurt you, I swear it," Elrohir burst swiftly, drawing one arm about her, and squeezing her shoulders gently. He shot his eyes toward Rumil who stood, waiting with bated breath, for him to follow. "I shall take you back to my grandmother. She and the lady Lothirien will watch after you until my return."

Calassë shook herself, her eyes focusing now upon Elrohir pleadingly as she clung to his hand as to a lifeline. "You-, you will return?" she grated quietly.

His heart caught upon a fierce beat at the ragged look of pain in her eyes. "I will, Calassë. I promise you. Come."

And with that, he turned, and tugged her along behind him as he rushed upon Rumil's heels, back toward the lights of Caras Galadhon.


	38. Chapter 37

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 37**

**March 18, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Chapter 37

Lalaith stood alone within the great hall, beside the black marble pillar nearest to the great iron doors, her hands folded quietly before her, motionless, as one of the stone carved statues that guarded the center of the hall before her. How she wished she could be one of them, she thought to herself, unfeeling, unmoved. For then, she would not feel this bitter wrenching loss within her heart. She had not known Faramir long, yet the pain of his sudden, senseless death wrenched her within. Her shoulders shook slightly as a silent spasm of tears jerked within her throat as Denethor, seated upon his carven throne blustered for a moment at one of his counselors who stood before him with clasped hands, mildly taking the Steward's curt insults, Denethor's mind seeming to be beyond the reality of what he had driven his one remaining son to do.

Pippin stood near Denethor's throne, silent, his hands folded before him, his sweet face wane and pale. Though at a look from her eyes he lifted his head, and smiled briefly.

"My lady, is there aught I can do for you?"

The voice caused her to turn her head as she watched Beregond step near from his place beside the door.

"Forgive me, Lord Beregond," she muttered, wiping at her tear streaked face. "I-,"

"There is nothing to forgive my lady, all the city mourns," he sighed quietly. "The lord Faramir, was beloved of us all. Bergil fairly worshipped him."

"Bergil?" Lalaith asked.

"My son," Beregond returned, a brief smile touching his lips. "A lad of but ten summers, though already he thinks himself a man. Would that he had gone with his mother and baby sister to stay with kin in a village north of Lebennin, but-,"

Lalaith glanced at Beregond, seeing a thin shimmer of wetness within his eyes as his stalwart jaw trembled a little.

"_Lady Lalaith_?"

Denethor's voice quipped from the head of the hall, and she looked up quickly.

"Did I give you leave to consort with the door wardens?" he demanded, rising slowly from his throne, and glaring across the hall at her with daggers in his eyes. "Leave him to his duty."

Beregond glanced at her swiftly, apology in his eyes. "Forgive him, if you can. Our lord was not always as he is now," he murmured quickly, before he returned to his post beside the door.

"Come, my lady," Denethor ordered, lifting a hand and beckoning her forward as if she were an impudent child. "Come here."

Lalaith could think of nothing to say to this, and so she silently complied, moving down the row of silent pillars who watched her passing through unseeing, stone eyes.

Beregond could remember the days when Denethor ruled with wisdom and prudence, she realized to herself as she drew closer to his throne. And Beregond and the others who knew him then felt sadness, and tragedy at Denethor's descent into this madness, as at the loss of something of great worth. Though for herself, Lalaith could feel nothing for Denethor now, aside from anger, and a pathetic pity.

"What is it, my lord?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice mild, though she could hear the hint of insolence beneath her soft tone.

"This Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who is a friend to you, dear as a brother," he muttered, his eyes narrowing at her as he hissed the words. "He is betrothed to your kinswoman, is he not?"

Lalaith's mouth dropped open slightly and she began, "How do you know-,"

"Why is it," Denethor cut in, stifling her words into silence, "that this-, this _ranger_ is worthy to mingle his blood with that of Elves, and yet _my_ sons, the sons of the House of the Stewards, faithful to Gondor, the sons of my Finduilas, who carried in her own blood, the blood of Elves, are not worthy of the same honor?"

Lalaith drew in a deep breath, her glance shooting to Pippin who stood beside the Steward's dark robed counselors, silent, their eyes drooping in quiet shame at their lord's curt words. Pippin gulped and gave her a helpless look before she shot her fierce gaze back to Denethor.

"Is this why you have been angry with me that I did not love Boromir in return?" she breathed, her voice soft, though spoken through gritted teeth. "Why you asked me if I would take Faramir over my own betrothed? Because you wish to prove that the worth of your House is greater than the line of the absent kings? Is that why?"

Denethor said nothing, though his lips curled into a snarl.

Against her will, her voice came out in a harsh bitter laugh. "Have your sons ever been any more than pawns to you, to gain you power? Did the inner workings of your sons' hearts ever mattered to you? What of their own choices?" In her mind, she finished bitterly, _But that is no matter any more now, as your sons are both dead._

"Boromir chose _you_!" Denethor wailed, his eyes aflame. But Lalaith held her ground, refusing to retreat even a step, and at her bold countenance, Denethor dropped his eyes as the echo of his angry voice faded in the hall. "He loved no other!" he finished in a weak, bitter cry.

"He did love me, my lord!" Lalaith spat back fiercely. "But to him, I was more than a-, a trophy to flaunt! He held no hidden desires for political gain beneath his caring for me. He knew I held no deep love for him, and he honored my wishes! And Faramir!" She choked upon the name. "Dear Faramir did not love me at all. And yet you spoke of-,"

Her heart leaped in her throat, cutting off her words. Faramir had _not_ loved her, and the thought struck her with sudden, jarring clarity. He had admitted his love for another before they parted for the last time. He loved the dream maiden he had spoken of-, but-, Lalaith sighed long, and glanced down at her hands, clasped before her to still their trembling, ignorant of Pippin's open, worried countenance, and Denethor's narrowed eyes. But that did not matter, Lalaith reminded herself, for Faramir had died all the same. None of the other men who had ridden with him to take back Osgiliath had been passionately in love with her, yet they were all dead with him.

A brief flurry from near the door drew Denethor's gaze as the great iron door creaked open, and one of the guards from the outer steps shot through the door, trading a brief flurry of words with Beregond before Beregond lifted his head and cried in a cracking voice, "My lord! Prince Imrahil has sent word ahead-, your son's horse-, came back through the gate, dragging your son by the stirrup. They are bringing him now!"

Lalaith's gaze shot to Denethor's once again, her frame stiffening as a sudden look of wild clarity came upon his face as if for a brief moment he realized the magnitude of what he had ordered his son to do.

Flinging himself from his throne, he dashed forward, shoving roughly past Lalaith as if she were not there.

"Faramir!" he cried, his voice broken and ragged as Lalaith snatched up the hem of her skirt and turned after him. With Pippin beside her, she rushed behind Denethor, out the door into the sunlight, her heart pounding painfully in her throat as she saw Imrahil drawing near, leading a group of four armored soldiers bearing a wooden stretcher between them as four more strode behind.

"Faramir!" Denethor fairly wailed as their group hurried near.

The soldiers set the bier burdened with Faramir's motionless form beneath the white tree as Denethor scrambled near. Lalaith struggled not to weep at the ragged shafts of orc arrows that had punched through the armor in his side, and beneath his arm.

"Say not that he has fallen!" Denethor whimpered pathetically, dropping to the head of the bier as he looked upon the motionless face of his son.

Lalaith drew in a hard breath at this. What care he showed now to his son, that he did not show before, now that Faramir was beyond heeding the caring words of his father!

"They were outnumbered," Imrahil murmured, a quiet anger seething now below the surface of his words. "None survived."

A series of mournful cries, sickened with misery, mingled with the distant mocking laughter of orcs reached Lalaith's ears from far below-, but she could not heed that, her own emotion too fixed upon Faramir's motionless form as Denethor staggered to his feet

"My sons are spent!" he whimpered as he stumbled away. "My line has ended!"

Taking his absence at his son's side as silent leave to take the empty spot Denethor had vacated, Lalaith rushed forward, skirting Prince Imrahil's cloaked form as Pippin pattered along beside her, the Elf maiden and Hobbit dropped to their knees beside him, her gown billowed about her as Lalaith caught Faramir's hand in one of her own, and touched his still face. Pippin's own small hand touched Faramir's brow.

But his flesh was not stiff and chill with death as it would be if he were dead. Heated it was, as with a fever, and Lalaith could hear the hushed and weak draw and release of his sparse breath through his nostrils. A wild hope leapt within her heart.

"But he is still alive, Pippin," she whispered as her eyes met the worried grey eyes of the small Hobbit beside her. Pippin's eyes grew round, and he gasped softly, feeling the heat of Faramir's fevered flesh, even through the leather gauntlets upon his hands.

"He's alive?" Pippin hissed, and lifting his voice, he cried out once more, "He's alive!"

"The House of Stewards has failed!" Denethor cried as he continued to stumble away.

"My lord, he is not dead!" Lalaith called over her shoulder.

"He needs medicine, my lord!" Pippin added in an urgent cry.

"My line has ended!" Denethor wailed in the background as if he had not heard.

"My lord!" Pippin cried, though again, the Steward did not turn, or pay any heed to either Lalaith's words, or the Hobbit's, his gaze suddenly fixed beyond the balustrade, his frame stiffened with horror. And then Lalaith heard it, a low distant roar, many voices, champing in rhythm, countless feet tramping near-,

Leaping to her feet, and catching her skirt within her hands, Lalaith darted away from Faramir's side to join Denethor at the balustrade, her heart falling into ashes at what she saw, the dark lines of orcs spread below her across the plains.

"Rohan has deserted us," Denethor whimpered at her side.

"No, my lord, they have not!" Lalaith choked back, reaching out and catching his robed arm within her grip. "He will not abandon me-, they will not abandon us!" she corrected herself swiftly.

"What?" he muttered sadly. "You think your beloved Elf lord with come with the horse lords of Rohan?"

"He will come-," Lalaith returned, though she jerked in fright as great stones hurtled from catapults, vaulted from among the orc horde, to drive smashing into the walls of the lower levels. Screams erupted from below her, and her eyes shot downward.

"Then why is there such fear as I see within your eyes, my lady?" Denethor whispered sadly, pityingly. "Boromir loved you. He would not have betrayed you, but your Elf lord has." A bitter look drew itself across his face as he shuddered in anger and grief. "And Théoden has betrayed _me_!"

A shaft of wrenching despair lanced through Lalaith's heart at these words, while below them, as if to add upon Denethor's despairing words, another volley of stones shot from the catapults over the walls. Stones crashed in the lower levels, screams echoed up. The screams of women, men, and-, and children-, all was in chaos.

What was she to do? Who would give the soldiers courage to fight back against the black terror gathered against them?

"Abandon your posts!" Denethor wailed, his voice carrying out over the lower levels of the city. "Flee! Flee for your lives!"

Lalaith shot a look of astonished rage at the Steward. Was this how far he had fallen? He was of little use to his people now! And with that thought, she straightened, and with all the force she could muster, brought her fist, with a sharp crack, into the center of Denethor's face.

For a brief moment, his eyes register a look of stupefied shock before they glazed over, and he tumbled to the ground in a senseless heap, as Gandalf's white clad visage came into view behind his collapsing form. Beyond Gandalf's shoulder, Denethor's guards stood in befuddled amazement that a maiden would do such a thing, too surprised to move, their faces blank with shock, though Gandalf, wielding his staff as if he too had meant to strike Denethor, set his staff once again upon the ground, and shot a pursed look of somber approval at Lalaith as she clenched her stinging fist once again to herself.

With pursed lips, he nodded briefly to her before he strode to the balustrade, and cried out, so that his voice carried down to the chaos stricken lower levels, "Prepare for battle!"

...

"Calassë?"

Lothirien's voice, followed by a soft rapping upon the wood of her chamber door brought Calassë's head up from where she sat upon her bed, her knees drawn in close to herself, hugging the small silver blanket she had carried with her from her first day in the Golden Wood, her face turned away from the door, though she glanced up as the two women entered, Lothirien bearing a silver tray laden with a small bowl of steaming soup, and a slice of warm, fragrant bread upon a platter beside it as Galadriel, tall and stately, glided in behind her.

"It has been a full day since the men left," Lothirien murmured as she set the tray upon the bedside table, and straightened, running her fingers thoughtfully over her yet slender stomach. "You have not come out of your room at all, and we have worried for you."

"Dear Calassë," Galadriel murmured, coming near, and sitting beside her, touching a hand to her hair, and smoothing it back behind the delicate peak of her ear, though Calassë would not meet her eyes.

"It is more than fear for his safety that keeps you hidden away from us, is it not?" Galadriel soothed. Calassë knew, though the lady did not speak his name, whom she spoke of. The one whose safety her heart prayed ceaselessly for, he in whom flowed the blood of both Elves and Men. "Your heart is troubled greatly, for memories begin to return to you."

Calassë looked up briefly into the lady's penetrating eyes as Lothirien stood beyond, watching in silence.

"I am afraid to face them, _Nana_, these-, memories-," Calassë whimpered. And to this, Galadriel leaned near, drawing Calassë to her, like a child.

"You are strong," Galadriel soothed softly, rocking the maiden's golden head against her shoulder as Calassë sagged wearily in the lady's arms, trustingly, as in the arms of her own mother. "And you have overcome much. Much more than I can yet see." Her hand reached out, and touched the cloth of the small blanket Calassë held, with a thoughtful hand, the fabric glittering like stars beneath the touch of her fingers. "These memories, painful as they are, are as poison drawn from a wound. Pain will come, but with it, cleansing."

"I want him to come back, _nana_," Calassë breathed. "I do not want him hurt. I will die if he is slain, for I-,"

Her face flushed as she spoke, and her voice faded into quiet, her words unfinished, but Galadriel's eyes grew moist and thoughtful as a small smile tugged upon the edges of her mouth as she let the cloth of the small blanket run through her fingers.

"I see now, his purpose in coming here," she murmured to herself, and softly kissed Calassë's brow. "And I am glad of it."

...

Screams echoed in the streets below the window of her chambers as Lalaith, clad once more in her breeches, her tunic and jerkin, buckled the strappings of the worn quiver Théoden had gifted to her, across her back, laden thickly with new arrows, and her two knives set in the leather quiver and strappings that that which had once been his own son's, Théodred. Her hair she had bound swiftly back in a single plait, which flicked back and forth across her back as she ran, a long, glittering rope of gold.

"_Hurry men! To the wall! Defend the wall_!"

Gandalf's voice, several streets below her, was swift and frantic, yet courageous as well above the cries and the screams amid the explosions of rubble and stone as the boulders flung from the catapults of the orcs pelted into the city. In spite of her own burning dread, Lalaith's heart took courage from Gandalf's valiant words as she snatched up her bow in one hand from a carven wooden table beside her small bed, and hurried through the house, thinking only of her frantic need to descend to the lower levels, to help Gandalf and the Men of Gondor.

Wrenching the door within the forechamber open, Lalaith was ready to launch herself out the door, though she stopped short, and fell back several steps at the imposing shadow that stood within the doorway.

"Lord Denethor," she gasped, glancing past his shoulder, and wondering why he had come, unaccompanied.

"Many of the tower guards have been called down to fight. Your young Hobbit friend was among them." He said as if in answer to her unspoken question.

"And what of Faramir? Have you found a healer to attend to his injuries?" Lalaith whispered hopefully.

"Finduilas would have loved a daughter," he muttered as if he had not heard her query, his eyes deep and sad as he entered the narrow forechamber uninvited, shutting the door behind him, so as to block her departure. He lifted his eyes briefly and studied her face with a tender expression, much as he had, the first night he had called her to him to speak of Boromir. Her heart beat swift and fast, wanting for nothing else but to dart past him, and fly down to the lower levels to help the Men.

"My lord, if you would but let me pass-," Lalaith hissed anxiously.

"My son was loyal to Gondor. Of all Men, he was worthy to join his line with the noble race of Elves." he muttered as if to himself, lowering his eyes, his imposing form still blocking her path. "But he died for love of you-," his voice choked, "and my second son has gone to join him, gone to wait beyond the stars, with all our fathers who have gone before, to await the ending of the world."

"No, my lord," Lalaith grated, reaching out, and clapping her small hand upon Denethor's darkly shrouded arm. He stiffened, but did not look up at her.

"If you listen to nothing else I say to you," her fingers tightened, "I beg you, my lord, somehow understand that Faramir is not dead! He is in need of medicine, a healer-, someone to tend to his wounds-," Denethor trembled slightly, but did not lift his eyes.

"There is no victory against this evil that has come upon us," he whispered fiercely. "We will all be slain, and you with us! Better for you to die swiftly, my child, than to be taken by the orcs, and tortured, before they devoured your flesh. Had Finduilas borne you, were I your father, I would not let you go down. I would keep you here, safe." His eyes glanced up at her, at last, dark, impenetrable. "Forever."

"My lord," Lalaith blurted at last, her urgency mounting, confused at his rambling words. "I must go down to help Gandalf, and your people. They will have the use of my bow and my knives, and whether I live or die, they will see that none of the children of Elrond's House are cowards."

With that, she pushed her way past him, her fist tight about her bow as her other hand reached out, seeking the door latch. But as she did, Denethor's hand came darting from behind her, and caught itself over her mouth, covering her nose and mouth with a cloth that had been hidden in his hand, and which bore a wretched, evil smell.

His other hand caught her neck, making it impossible for her to pull away, and Lalaith could not even scream or wrench his hands away from her mouth before the noxious fumes filled her lungs, choking her, drowning her in a thick pulsing haze as her bow fell to the stone tiles with a hollow clatter that echoed long in her ears.

"Forgive me, my-, my daughter," Denethor's voice was near weeping, though it echoed strangely, as if across a vast chasm, deep and black and she felt herself grow limp, falling-, falling, though arms, strangely gentle, caught her and bore her up before she struck the floor. Clouds of oblivion swirled about her, and she was lost to all thought.


	39. Chapter 38

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 38**

**March 23, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

In spite of his weariness, Elrohir smiled as he made his way beneath the silver lighted trees of Caras Galadhon away from the music and the merry making that faded behind him through the trees as he followed the path his grandmother had directed him upon. Though the threat had not faded, there was much to be joyful for, now that the men had returned, all of them unscathed, having driven the dark forces of Dol Guldur back across the river, but his thoughts were not turned upon the feasting behind him, for the face he had carried ever before his eyes during the battle, he had not seen among the faces of the women who had come to greet the returning warriors.

Turning briefly at a soft sound to his left, he saw through the trees, two shadowed figures, a man and a woman, Haldir and his lady Lothirien, he noted as they drew nearer, who had taken themselves away from the lights and noise of the clearing behind them, for a brief moment together. A look of infinite tenderness had claimed the Marchwarden's usually haughty features as he brushed tears of worry from his lady's fair cheeks, and gently kissed her as their arms went about one another, their embrace swiftly growing tight and insistent. Elrohir could only smile and glanced discretely away as he hurried on down the path, his heart aching all the more for she whom he sought.

All he could hear above the reverent silence about him, was the echoing hush of flowing water that grew as he drew closer. The spot of color through the trees gleamed like a shaft of shimmering azure before he caught sight of Calassë's gown, and Elrohir felt a surge of warmth in his heart as he picked up his feet more swiftly, hurrying forward until he came around the edge of the last trees, and saw her, seated upon a flat rock, some distance downstream that arched slightly out over the water that flowed beneath it.

The flat stone she sat upon, lay beneath a warm beam of moonlight that pierced the canopy overhead, and rested upon her unbound hair in a silver glow where she sat beside the stream, gazing down into the water, a pensive, almost sad expression upon the fair features of her face as a hand reached out, trailing lightly over the trickling surface of the water. Her slender young body was concealed beneath a shimmering silken gown of dusty azure that flowed over the curves of her fair form in a way that caused his heart to catch strangely in his throat.

She had not noticed him as yet, and Elrohir paused where he had stopped, drinking in the sight of her, her legs curled beneath her, so frail and small-, So like a bird she seemed, one of the bright white birds that flitted through the trees of Lórien, adding their cheerful songs to the music of the forest. All that was in him, wished to go to her, to take her into his arms, and never let her go.

"Calassë," he called at last, his voice hushed and still in the quiet, and her eyes darted upward, her blindingly blue gaze traveling over his form, clad in his battle clothing, his breeches and loose tunic open at the throat, frayed and blood stained.

A decidedly warm flush darkened her face, which only served to add to her beauty, and Elrohir smiled as he strode forward, and lowered himself to the stone beside her, reaching out and catching her hand in his own.

"My lord," she breathed, glancing down at the hand she held. She turned toward him, the fingers of her free hand touching lightly upon a black smatter of orc blood that had dried upon his sleeve. Her eyes remained fixed upon the black crusted blood as if entranced, her voice soft and hollow as she hissed, "I am glad to see you returned, well and whole. I have worried-,"

"I am here, now, Lady Calassë. Where I wish to be," he returned before he leaned near her shoulder and, though his heart pounded wildly within him, added in a softer voice, "For I would choose to be with no other but you whom I could not cease to think of, as we drove the forces of Dol Guldur back. Your fair and gentle face never left my thoughts, and I could think of nothing but returning to you."

Once again, her eyes lifted to his, and Elrohir started at the shimmering pain he saw within them.

She drew her hand back, and glanced away as she rose, taking several steps away from him, her body stiffened, her shoulders taut, an attitude of troubled pain resting upon her.

"Calassë?" he queried as he hopped up swiftly, wondering at her sudden pain. Had he troubled her or pained her, somehow? That was not his intent!

"Calassë?" he breathed, drawing himself up behind her, and putting his hands upon her shoulders-, so small and frail. Warmth trembled through him as he felt the heat of her soft flesh through the cloth of her gown, and he shuddered slightly at the power it brought him. He would move the world for this maiden, if it were in his power. "Something troubles you. Will you not tell me what it is?"

Elrohir turned back to see her eyes, drenched in sorrow and confusion, studying him before they fell downward.

"I would do anything for you, my Calassë," he breathed softly, slowly reaching outward toward her, and softly catching her hands, wishing to comfort her. "I would die for you, were I called upon to do so. Let me comfort you. Let me take away your pain. For I-,"

Calassë tore suddenly away from him, startling Elrohir into silence, a look of pleading mingled with fear coming upon her face as she stumbled back, away from him.

"Calassë?" he queried softly. "What is it?"

"I have remembered-," she choked in a voice that was hardly her own as her gaze once again lifted to meet his, though he hardly recognized her for the wretched expression of agony and shame that had claimed her countenance. "I remember-,"

All color was gone from her face, and she had grown as pale as the moon as she lifted tortured eyes to his, and her hand fell to her stomach as if a sudden pain had seized her.

"Oh, dear Valar, I did not think it would be so difficult as this-," she moaned raggedly.

"Calassë-," he murmured, drawing a step nearer to her, his hands outstretched for her. "What do you remember?"

So often before, she had found comfort in the shelter of his arms, but now, she fell back a step from him, as if retreating from something she feared. "No!" she hissed. "Please, don't. You cannot touch me, my dearest-, I-, I am-,"

A sob wrenched from her lungs before she turned away from him, her face in her hands, and fled away into the silver washed mist of the forest, following no path as she swiftly disappeared from his view into the thick night shadows beneath the trees.

"Calassë!" he cried, breaking into a run after her, following the bright shimmer of her gown flitting between the trees as she fled from him. He could hear her sobs following behind her as she ran.

"Calassë!" he cried, ducking tree limbs and leaping large stones drawing steadily nearer to her until at last they broke through the trees into a narrow, star washed clearing.

She turned upon him, terror in her eyes, backing, like a cornered animal into the trunk of a tree, her young breasts rising and falling swiftly from her swift flight as Elrohir drew near to her, and placed his hands on both sides of her, determined not to let her flee from him again.

"Calassë-," he gulped, his breath heaving from his hard run through the trees as he leaned near to her. "What happened? Speak to me, please! I beg you! It is torture to see you in such pain, and myself unable to help!"

But Calassë spoke not at all as she pushed helplessly at his arms pressed against the tree on both sides of her, holding her captive. But she could not break free. And with a look of heartbreaking despair, she ducked her head, pressed her face into her hands, and began to sob.

"Calassë, why?" Elrohir queried helplessly, his frustration fading at her tears. "Why did you run from me? Have I frightened you?"

He drew his arms back from the tree, releasing his unwilling prisoner, though she did not flee as he stepped back, a sobering thought entering his mind. "There is another," he muttered, his heart wrenching within him. "You are remembering your lover, one you loved and lost long ago, and have only now remembered."

"Would it were that!" She shook her head, stilling her tears, and looking away, refusing to lift her eyes to his. "For then, you would not despise me."

"Calassë, I could never despise you." Elrohir breathed softly, moving to draw her close, but she would not come, and instead pulled away from him. "You are the most beautiful, the most pure hearted maiden I have ever known-,"

"Stop!" She cried in a ragged, tortured voice. "Every word you speak is like a dagger in my heart!"

Elrohir tightened his jaw. "I do not wish for it to be!" he cried. "Tell me what I must do, to stop your pain Calassë! I would do all in my power to do so, for you are dearer to me than all-,"

"No! Do not speak thusly!" she cried, and jerked away, backing slowly away from him, though her weeping eyes pled with him as she moved away.

"Why?" he demanded. "Do I not deserve to know why? I beg you, Calassë! To see your pain is torture to me, as well. I beg you, have mercy upon me!"

At his pleading words, Calassë stopped, shuddering as she did, and dropped her head, weary and defeated.

A nightingale somewhere off in the forest began a somber song of twilight, and the wind about them rustled the leaves within the branches over their heads.

Silence reigned a long moment before Calassë once again opened her mouth and spoke, her voice timid and small in the strained quiet.

"I am not who you think I am, Eärendil." She muttered. The words, spoken by her, addressing him as his grandfather, seemed a strange thing. And the jarring reminder that she thought him to be another, returned again to him. "I do not deserve to be here, in these fair, unblemished woods, fostered by these beautiful, faultless people! I am unworthy to be adored so, by you! I am-, I am-," she finished in a choking whisper, "I am unclean."

A hard lump formed within Elrohir's gut as she spoke. And the knowledge of what she spoke of, made him want to take her in his arms, and weep with her, forever. He had been certain that such a thing had happened, but to feel her pain and her shame afresh, tore fresh wounds open upon his heart.

"The orcs that took me-," she gulped hard as he trembling, listening, his heart tearing within him to see her pain. "I do not remember it all. It is like a faded nightmare. But I remember enough to know that-," she gulped hard once more. "They did not leave me untouched. I am not the fair virtuous maiden you think I am." The despairing look in her eyes, and the pain within the words she spoke, smote his heart. Her voice rose now, bitter and despairing. "They ruined me."

Her eyes dropped to the ground at her feet as she turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. She was weeping silently now, this painful confession having drained her completely.

"Calassë-," Elrohir breathed. And in one fluid movement, he crossed the space between them, and caught her soft shoulders in his hands, drawing her closer against him, from behind. "Do not weep such bitter tears. For now together, we can go on, away from the torment of the past."

"How can we?" she whispered sadly, shivering slightly, her slender back warm against his chest. "I am unworthy to be here in this fair place untouched by the stain of evil! I am-," Choking upon a sob, she cried, "I am unworthy of _you_, my dear one!"

"No!" Elrohir seethed, his jaw tightening as he turned her toward him, and Calassë did not resist, glancing up, her eyes shimmering with sorrowful tears.

"You were not willing! Their evil is not your own." he declared vehemently, remembering the wretched pain his mother had endured, the same harrowing guilt that wracked Calassë's soul, now. How wretchedly helpless he felt!

"But I am no longer the innocent maiden of Gondolin I once was-,"

"Calassë," he choked his hands upon her shoulders tightening, and his eyes bore deeply into her own. "Answer me truly! Have you ever given yourself to any man, of any race, good or fell, of your own choice?"

Softly she swallowed, her head half bowed, and murmured, "No-,"

"Then you _are_ a maiden!" he breathed, his voice grown suddenly tender as he took Calassë's face between his hands, his thumbs tenderly brushing away the shining silver tears that trailed down her fair cheeks.

A soft broken breath found its way out of her lips at these words. And as her eyes misted with silent, silver tears, a great tenderness welled within Elrohir. An innocent, ethereal tenderness that rose above his admiration of her outward beauty.

"Oh, my dear one!" she cried. And she was in his arms, her slender form sheltered in the strength of his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin as she clutched him tightly in return.

Elrohir tucked his head over her own, trembling slightly from the warmth that shivered through him. Never had he seen the Blessed Realm, or walked upon the gold dusted streets of Tirion. But surely, the joy he would feel were he ever to come to those hallowed shores could not be greater than what he felt here, with Calassë sheltered in his arms. Softly, he bent his head, pressing a soft kiss to her smooth, ivory brow.

"The Valar bless you, Eärendil," she murmured lifting her head, her eyes soft in spite of the wetness that yet lingered there, and Elrohir sighed at the name she spoke, a troubled sadness washing over his heart.

But for her sake he merely smiled and rested his cheek against her hair as she tucked her head against his shoulder and sighed, her breath broken, yet content.


	40. Chapter 39

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 39**

**March 24, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

Long and black, their black sails caught full, the shadowed ships came gliding with sinister grace northward upon the Anduin like great black clouds of doom as they drew ever nearer to Legolas where he stood upon a narrow bay of rocky shoreline along the great river, a high wall of stone at his back, the clattering water lapping almost lightheartedly at the tips of his boots as his eyes roved over the Men that manned the ships as they drew ominously nearer along the water's path. Their faces were hard and cold, their eyes, cruel and shallow, their thirst for the death of Gondor an almost palpable scent upon the wind. But above the heaviness, rose a curious, almost light hearted hope within him, and he wondered from where it had come even as Legolas stood upon the brink of the Anduin, waiting straight and calm as a young tree for the black ships to draw nearer.

Beyond the ships' black masts to the south and west, the clouds rode high and white against the dome of the sky in the south and the west, and Legolas' heart twinged at the thought that there, beyond the many splayed fingers of the Ethir Anduin, lay the sea.

_The Sea_, and the very thought of it sparked a wrenching in his heart that was both aching and sweet at once. Was that from whence this curious peace came from? And for the briefest moment, a fleeting image of a woman standing upon the prow of the ship flashed through his mind. All about her, the ship was awash in the golden light of the setting sun, her gown and her hair catching wildly in the ocean breeze as she strained toward the golden horizon, her arms outspread in an attitude of perfect joy. And then she turned and smiled at him, and he could have wept in joy at the blissful light upon her face. _Lalaith_.

But just as quickly, the image was gone. And the great black ships drew nearer, filled with Men whose hearts were black with corruption, who, bent to the wicked promises of Sauron, were coming now, to crush Minas Tirith, to kill his beloved, who waited there, for him. And at this thought, Legolas' heart filled with warm, seething wrath.

"You may go no further," Aragorn's voice called from beside him, the ranger's voice strangely calm, though it carried powerfully across the water. Powerful enough that the bosun of the nearest ship took swift notice, and rose from his seat, a harsh scowl upon his fierce face.

"You will not enter Gondor," Aragorn continued in his calm, even voice as the bosun strode near to the port side of his ship, and glared toward the shore.

"Who are you, to deny us passage?" the man barked back.

"Legolas," Aragorn murmured, his voice ever calm and powerful at once, "fire a warning shot past the bosun's ear."

Eagerly, Legolas reached a swift hand over his shoulder, and snatched an arrow from his quiver.

"Mind your aim," he heard Gimli mutter softly at his side as he drew his bow taut to his cheek.

Legolas registered the swift tap upon the edge of his bow in the very moment his fingers released the string, and even as the arrow flew from his bow, he knew where it would strike, well below the space of empty air beside the bosun's ear. And sure enough, with a harsh crack, his arrow slammed into the chest of one of the pirates who stood near the bosun, the mocking grin upon his face crumpling into a look of astonished horror as he wailed, and fell with a heavy thump, dead upon the deck of his ship.

"Ooh," Gimli gasped out, in mock surprise, his gloved hand darting to his mouth. A brief well of annoyance rose in him as Legolas shot a glance at Gimli, though inwardly, he admitted he could only admire the Dwarf's surly audacity.

"That's it. Right. We warned you," Gimli crowed loudly toward the other pirates upon the great black ship as it glided past, their faces still drawn in seething mockery of the three men upon the shoreline. Entirely ignorant of their slain comrade they were, unfeeling, Legolas realized, of even one another's pain. "Prepare to be boarded!"

"Boarded?" the bosun shouted back, his face fierce and jeering. "By you and whose army?"

"This army," Aragorn murmured in a fierce whisper.

Legolas drew a deep breath into his lungs, his eyes fixed fiercely upon the corsairs of the black ship nearest them, his fist tightening about his bow as from the great stone cliff behind them, the army of the dead seethed out passing like a cold wind through his frame as they soared low over the water.

Terror filled the eyes of the men upon deck, their cries of fear and horror drowned in the roaring of the dead men, that carried over the water as a swift wind upon a winter's night as it howled, unseen, through the dark depths of the forest-,

He turned his eyes down, as the ghostly vapor spilled across the water and up upon the decks of the several ships ship like a swiftly rolling mist enshrouding the surface of the river. Though these Men were cold of heart, unfeeling, still he could not but feel a remote pang as their shrieks rose, and faded at last, into a heavy, dreadful silence.

He only looked up again, when the creaking of rope, and the plash of water against the prow of a ship, drew near as one of the black ships, seemingly unmanned, drew near to the shore, and paused in the shallows before them.

"Augh, well what are we waiting for?" Gimli grunted, the first of the three to speak, breaking the heavy silence, and brandishing his axe within his sturdy hands, he marched boldly out into the water, making for the rope that, without visible hands, dropped over the side as Aragorn, marched with a clatter, out toward the ship. And Legolas, after releasing a swift, long held breath, started out after his friends.

...

"The scouts report Minas Tirith is surrounded!" the voice of Éomer called out from a short distance away as he, with two flag bearers, drew swiftly nearer to the king.

Merry, perched upon a low rise of earth gnawing at a small portion of bread, watched Éowyn's face as she stood with her back toward her brother and uncle, scanning the surrounding hills, her eyes empty, her attitude visibly agitated. Elfhelm, the marshal who commanded the _éored_ in which they were riding, sat upon the ledge of stone behind Merry, his head down, a troubled look pursing his lips beneath his scraggled beard. He knew of Éowyn's ruse, Merry understood, but he was trustworthy, and would say nothing of his liege-lady, or the small Hobbit who rode with her.

"The lower level's in flames," the king's nephew continued as he paused beside the king who stood at the head of Snowmane, his mount. "Everywhere, legions of the enemy advance."

"Time is against us," Théoden returned in a fierce voice. Then lifting his voice louder, he called, so that more could hear his order, "Make ready!"

Éowyn shook her head slightly at this, her gaze unreadable as she glanced down at the young Hobbit.

"Take heart, Merry," she choked, her voice low and forced, "It will soon be over."

_Over_? Merry wondered. He did not like the sound of it, not the way she said it. For in her voice, there seemed to be a hidden longing for lasting finality. Death, he thought. Was that why she had come, Merry wondered as he studied her troubled blue eyes. Because she sought death? Whyever for?

"My lady," he blurted quickly, sympathy rising swiftly within his heart. "You are fair and brave, and have much to live for. And many who love you." He sighed softly, and lowered his eyes at the wetness that touched the lady's eyes as she turned and looked fully upon him. What was hidden there, in her woman's heart that remained unspoken?

For the briefest moment, his thoughts darted far and away, to the green, glad vales of the Shire, and in his mind, he saw the bright, laughing eyes of Estella Bolger-,

Merry quickly shook the thought away. He wasn't in love with her, was he? She was just a pleasant little lass he knew. And with such uncertainty looming over him, he dared not think of what the future might hold. But perhaps someday-,

"I know it is too late to turn aside," he continued, pushing the thought far from him, now. "I know there is not much point now, in hoping-," he smiled briefly at a new thought as he lifted his meager crust of bread. "If I were a knight of Rohan, capable of great deeds-, But I'm not. I'm a Hobbit. And I know I can't save Middle earth." He paused a short moment at the look in her shining eyes as she drew a step closer to him. Was that, perhaps what caused her sorrow? He was a Hobbit, smaller than the bold, broad men of Rohan, and she a woman of the race of Men, slender, and weaker of arm than her kinsmen, though no less bold of heart.

"I just want to help my friends," Merry continued softly, glancing downward, and picturing their faces once again, smiling and laughing in the sun, carefree as they had all once been. "Frodo, Sam," he murmured quietly, smiling briefly. "Pippin."

Her tear wet eyes were focused upon him now, as she drank in his words.

"More than anything, I wish I could see them again," he finished quietly.

He smiled softly, a smile which she returned, and a soft peace seemed to settle upon both of them, interrupted a moment later, by her brother's stern voice calling from a short distance away, "Prepare to move out!"

"Make haste!" the king's voice followed swiftly upon his nephew's. "We ride through the night!"

In response to this, several voice about the encampment sounded deep and long, throbbing through the air about them.

A weight, deep and grim, settled upon Merry's heart. This was no idealistic dream toward which he rode, an easy path toward fame and glory. Evil, real and breathing, was waiting for him. And perhaps-, perhaps he would not return to the Shire, perhaps never again would he see Estella's pleasant, round little face, set with the gems of her shining eyes-,

Yet knowing this bitter thought, he set aside his bread crust, and snatched up his helmet, anyway, rising swiftly to his feet as he pulled it firmly over his honey brown curls.

In response to this, Éowyn drew her own helmet over her head, her soft blue eyes now fixed with a fierce determination.

"To battle," she breathed, and Merry nodded to this.

"To battle," he returned quietly.

...

At the balustrade, Pippin could see the fires raging in the lowest level of the city, the glint of the warriors' armor as they rushed to defend the gate. The shadows of the orcs below him, were little more than a blurry sea of dark bodies in the black shadows that were illuminated only here and there by the flicker of distant fires-. Were Lalaith with him, he mused, she could see them better.

The stones beneath his feet shivered as a great boom rolled up from the lowest level. The stones shuddered again. A, he guessed. A massive battering ram was driving into the gate with strength enough to shiver up through the very bones of the mountain.

If only Lalaith were here, he sighed to himself. Or Beregond, perhaps. But Lalaith was down there, somewhere. Down with Gandalf and the armored warriors. He had not seen her when he went down with Beregond, and others of the Tower Guard who had been called down to fight, before he had returned up the hill at Gandalf's order, though Beregond and the others had stayed. But surely Lalaith was alright, he assured himself. Surely, she had been leading another group of men, somewhere else, in heated battle against the orcs. Surely she was yet alive-, He shivered slightly. He could not bear to think of her as anything else.

A soft noise behind him alerted Pippin, and turning, he saw a small light beyond the tree where the dark cloaked guards stood, tall sharp javelins in their hands, ever watchful, ever unmoving. Denethor was coming from out an arching doorway at the feet of the high tower of Ecthelion. And behind him, strode a group of armored soldiers clad in dark cloaks bearing a bier on their shoulders upon which lay Faramir, quiet as death and beside them, matching the Faramir's bearers still form step by step, marched another group of darkly clad soldiers bearing a similar bier, upon which another quiet form lay, though Pippin could not see who the other fallen warrior could be, for a white shroud had been lain over the still form, though Faramir had no covering. Behind them, were other robed men bearing torches that glowed dim in the heavy darkness that lay like a pall over Minas Tirith as the acrid scent of ash and brimstone wafted up from the lowest level.

Denethor strode ahead of the group, mumbling softly to himself as he went, though Pippin could not hear his words. Faramir's bearers followed slowly along behind him. Pippin scampered across the green sward near the white tree, its branches reaching heavenward like the tortured fingers of a skeletal hand, his eyes widening with wonder.

A shuddering chill ran along Pippin's limbs as he stood beside the white tree, his hand upon its once smooth, gleaming bark, though now it was dull and dry as a bone beneath his fingertips.

Who of high rank had fallen, that he would deserve to be borne in so honored a manner as this?

Pippin's heart pounded swiftly within him as scampered after them, followed the somber column far behind as Denethor led his servants toward the silent tombs that rose stark as white bones against the blackness of the night.

Down from the Citadel they went, down, down toward the monuments and domes of stone and marble that flanked the Silent Street, that which he had heard called Rath Dínen.

...

The long hall of the burial house of the Stewards, dank with age and decay, flickered ominously in the weak torchlight as Pippin shuffled softly along the hallway, flanked with silent forms of stone, laying as if they slept. He made his way silently toward a circled chamber in the center of the long hallway, beneath the dome of the burial house upon which rested a wide table of stone.

Pippin's eyes shot wide in alarm, for about the great stone table, were stacked many bundles of bound sticks, and upon them, Faramir's still form lay beside the other figure still shrouded beneath the white mantle.

Denethor, hunched with misery, was kneeling upon the dried sticks stacked upon the stone alter, between the two figures, speaking.

"That Finduilas could have borne such a fair daughter as you," Denethor was mumbling softly as Pippin eased closer, unnoted by the guards and the Steward's other servants as they continued to stack more of the dried, brittle bundles about the three forms. "Such a fair and noble maiden, the pride of her father's house. And now, though in death, you shall now truly become my own daughter-,"

And with that, Denethor grasped a hand upon the white mantle, and whipped it back, like a flag cracking in a sudden wind, and catching white in the light of the torches.

Pippin gaped as a wave of unpleasant shock took him. And Pippin's eyes went wide in horror as the still face came into his view at last, her eyes closed, her face fair and white, as her golden hair lay billowed about her upon the dried sticks. No! Not Lalaith!

"Here now, I bind thee to my son by my authority as Steward of the House of Anárion." At these words, Denethor drew up Lalaith's small white hand, still and unmoving, and placed it into Faramir's limp hand. "A daughter you are now to me in all truth, fair Lalaith, maiden of the Elves, and child of the stars-,"

"No!" Pippin cried, running forward, and Denethor raised his head, looking with a glance of hardened distaste upon the Hobbit.

"Not Lalaith!" he screamed. "She's not dead! What did you do to her? And Faramir! He is not dead!"

A wild madness seized him as he grasped a heavy bundle of sticks, wrenching on it. "They're not dead!" he shrieked wildly, wrenching the dried kindling back.

"They're not dead!" he screamed again even as Denethor, dark of face, his eyes flashing with deep anger, leapt from the stone altar, and snatched Pippin roughly by his mail hauberk, and wrenched him away.

"No! No!" Pippin shrieked, flailing furiously as the Man dragged him toward the door.

With all the fury of his strength, he grasped upon Denethor's arm, wrenching fiercely, but the Man's grip was maddeningly strong as Pippin struggled and twisted, straining his head to watch the scene with awful disbelief as the Steward's servants, ignorant of his cries, continued their silent task of gathering the wood bundles about the stone plinth and the two still forms that lay upon it. Why did they not heed him? Did they not know?

"No! They're not dead!" he screamed again, grasping at Denethor's iron grip.

"Farewell, Peregrin, son of Paladin," Denethor cried out, his voice deep and authoritative, Pippin barely heeding his voice amidst his own wild cries. "I release you from my service."

With a rough shove, Denethor pushed Pippin across the threshold. Pippin fell harshly upon one arm and tumbled in a wild vortex for a space before he thumped to an abrupt spot, and catching his arms under him, pushed himself up, bruised and dizzy.

"Go now, and die in what way seems best to you," Denethor muttered, studying the Hobbit with a look of bitter disappointment in his glazed eyes as if somehow, Pippin was in the wrong.

And with that, the Steward flung the doors shut with a noisome clang, a clap of a lock being thumped into place, and Pippin knew he was locked out.

"_Pour oil on the wood_!" Denethor's muffled voice cried from within.

Releasing a groan of frustration, Pippin pounded his gloved fist against the ground. His own strength would not be enough to dash the door down! Lalaith was in there, and Faramir as well, soon to be burned to death because of Denethor's madness! But perhaps if he braved the nightmare of the lower levels, he just might find Gandalf, and save his friends in time. That one thought, brought a small sliver of hope to his heart. And as Denethor had released him even now-,

Pippin sprang to his feet, giving no more time to his thoughts, and dashed away from the silent, bone white tombs, and back across the causeway toward the flames of the city, his short legs carrying him more swiftly than they had, in a long while.

...

"Gandalf!" Pippin cried, as he scampered swiftly through the maze of streets, his eyes scanning the faces of the soldiers as they fled past, wounded and bleeding, here and there, a soldier dragging his wounded comrade along through the shattered rubble. Pippin's lungs burned from his hurried search, his voice growing hoarse from his shouting. His legs were turning into jelly, but still he ran. Was he too late? Had Denethor burned Lalaith and Faramir to ashes already?

"Gandalf!" he cried again.

"Pippin?" a voice taut with pain and fear called through the haze of dust, and Pippin's heart leapt in his throat as a group of women, carrying wailing babies, and tugging weary weeping children along with them, escorted by a handful of soldiers, came rushing up the path, their faces anxious and written with fear.

Among them, Pippin recognized the brown hair and the features so like his father's as the boy struggled to put on a brave front.

"Bergil!" he cried, seeing the bloody gashes upon one of the boy's legs as he leaned heavily against a young woman who tugged him quickly along.

"Come on, my lad," the girl gasped breathlessly as Pippin cast Bergil a last glance, then turned and darted swiftly away, his urgent mission returned to him.

"Gandalf!" he cried, darting down through the streets clogged with burning rubbled and retreating soldiers. Oh, where was the White Wizard?

"Fight!" came the strong, deep voice he knew so well over the approaching noise of screeching orcs and snarling wargs. "Fight to the last man! Fight for your lives!"

And blessedly, the white robed form of Gandalf, mounted upon Shadowfax, came into view in that moment as Pippin rounded a sharp corner, and came darting down a set of rubble strewn steps, skirting between the armored forms of fleeing soldiers.

"Gandalf!" Pippin shrieked, his energy renewed as he scrambled toward the white figure, and Gandalf, wielding his white staff, turned suddenly upon him, his wrathful eyes filling now with concern.

"Gandalf," he gasped his breath rough and fierce, reaching Shadowfax's flank. "Denethor has lost his mind! He did something to Lalaith! And he's burning her and Faramir alive!"

Gandalf's eyes opened in wild anxiety at this. "Up! Quickly!" the wizard cried without hesitation, and snatching the Hobbit by an arm, he jerked him up behind him upon Shadowfax, and with a touch of his hand, the silver horse leapt away, up the swiftly sloping streets, leaping scattered piles of broken stone.

Up Shadowfax leapt, his hooves flying beneath him, clattering swiftly over the stone up the steeply sloping streets, surging higher and higher on toward the citadel, and Pippin's heart grew hopeful within him. Surely they would arrive in time to save them both!

But just as Shadowfax passed beneath a arching tunnel and into the wane light, a heavy shadow, like a thick, suffocating pall fell suddenly over Pippin's heart. He felt it even before Shadowfax reared back in angry fury, before he saw the dark towering figure swoop down from the ash covered sky to land with a harsh scrape of stony claws upon the parapet before them. But as Shadowfax snorted and turned slightly, he saw the great black shape, the cruel naked wings clawing at the parapets about it, and the figured mounted upon its hunched back, the ragged cloak cast over the faceless void beneath the iron helm.

Before Pippin, Gandalf stiffened, brandishing his staff toward the undead Ringwraith. The Lord of the Nazgûl! The Witch King!

"Go back to the Abyss!" Gandalf cried, his voice strong though Pippin flinched at the hint of fear he heard in the wizard's voice as a slow hiss as of the chill air of death's breath, seethed from beneath the wicked helm. "Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!"

"Old fool!" a seething voice seeped from beneath the crowned, faceless hood. And the voice seared like fire through Pippin's veins. Against his will, he cried out in wrenching pain. "Do you not know death when you see it?"

_Who could endure such a presence as this_, his mind cried out to itself. For even Gandalf feared this vile creature!

"This is my hour!" the Witch King breathed fiercely. "I do not fear you. You cannot defeat me. The only one whose blade I need fear, burns upon a pyre! Die now, and curse in vain!"

And with that, the Witch King lifted his sword high, and wild streaks of flame ran down the blade as a shrieking sound of wind screamed through the air, whipping about the flaming sword.

A sudden burst of strength blasted from the burning blade, and with a crash, Gandalf's white staff shattered, and Pippin found himself flying through the air, to land with a rough crash upon the harsh stones, as Gandalf fell, helpless as well. Pippin scrambled swiftly up, his back pressed against the cold stones of the wall behind him, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

"Gandalf!" he cried out. Shadowfax, skittered wildly to the side, though the horse refused to back further even as the winged monster stamped nearer to the fallen wizard, its long mottled neck straining toward the wizard.

Mustering his courage, Pippin snatched his short blade from its sheath, and with a cry, leapt forward. But at the sight of him, the great wicked beast bared its teeth and released a wild roar of fury, exposing its many rows of razored teeth. Shorn of his courage, Pippin stopped, helpless. Why was it he could do nothing? Why was he so very powerless?

"You have failed," the Witch King breathed. "The world of Men will fall."

The blade lifted in the gaunleted hands, and Pippin could only look on helplessly, waiting for the death stroke to fall.

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, there came from far away, as clear and bright as a beam of light spearing through a darkened cloud, a high clear note. A horn.

The faceless demon paused, glancing away toward the sound. The faceless eyes glanced back again toward Gandalf, and then, with a hop, the great mottled beast whipped away, swooping down from the wall, and away over the masses of orcs.

Gandalf sat up, visibly shaken, as Pippin swallowed fiercely and stumbled forward, weak and drained, shamed at his fear. Though Gandalf merely smiled and rose again to his feet, helping Pippin up with him as Shadowfax trotted nearer.

The wizard glanced up, his eyes catching a light in them which Pippin was glad to see as another horn followed upon the first, joined a moment later by many more.

"Come, Peregrin Took," Gandalf cried as he swung upon the silver horse's back, and grasped Pippin, pulling him up swiftly behind him. "I would have Faramir and Lalaith live to see the hope that comes now again to the Men of Gondor. For Rohan at last, has come."

And with that, Shadowfax once again sprang away.


	41. Chapter 40

**Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 40**

**March 25, 2005**  
><em>Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina<em>

In spite of the thoughts of the menace of Dol Guldur weighing ever upon his mind, Elrohir's heart was light, his lips curled up in a twisted smile as he sat upon a low stone, twining spliced feathers to an arrow shaft, a small bundle of finished arrows resting beside him. But his thoughts were not on his work. Rather, he was recalling the way Calassë had bidden him farewell minutes before, as she moved down the path away from him, her arm linked girlishly through the arm of Lady Lothirien, a basket swinging over her free arm as the two ladies tripped lightly over a footbridge, and skipped blithely over a rill, and down beyond it, her visage vanishing from his sight like the bright beam of the sun, snuffed suddenly out.

"Your thoughts seem to lead you upon pleasant paths," a gentle voice sounded at his shoulder, and Elrohir turned to meet the eyes of his grandmother as she studied his face, a small smile playing at her lips as her eyes narrowed with bright, secret thoughts, and he wondered how wistful his countenance appeared to her as she seated herself lightly beside him upon the stone.

"Calassë has gone with Lady Lothirien to gather berries in the glen," he returned. "She is happy. Thus, I am as well."

"She has healed well, both her heart and her body, in the short time she has been here," Galadriel murmured warmly. "It is surprising is it not, how deeply one can grow to care for another so quickly?"

Elrohir drew in a deep breath as Galadriel glanced askance at him, her smile tugging upward.

He opened his mouth to speak, though no words came out. To this, Galadriel's smile only broadened. "From the moment I first came to Doriath and met your grandfather's eyes as he stood near the throne of his kinsman, King Thingol, I felt something. His beauty and regal bearing captured my gaze, and stopped the breath in my throat. Yet I felt also, a strange and tender kinship with him, a familiarity that whispered to my mind that I had known him before. As if our souls had been calling to one other. My heart was lost to him that day, though I did not know it, then."

Galadriel smiled at the cherished memory, her eyes moist. "We met often, he and I, beneath the misty trees, and we would walk alone together, and speak of many things. But it was not until many seasons later, on a fair, golden day when we walked hand in hand, as we had grown to do, that suddenly, I understood, at last." Galadriel sighed softly. "We had never spoken of love before that day. Yet, when he turned me to him, when he touched my face, and declared at last that he loved me, it seemed so natural a thing. As if we had been lovers for ages. I confessed my love for him as well, and we plighted our troth in that hour. He kissed me there, under the trees of Doriath-," Galadriel sighed dreamily like a young maiden and smiled. "And it was then that he called me Alatáriel*, Galadriel as our kin now say it, and since that day, I have favored that name above all others that I have been given."

"Maiden crowned with a radiant garland," Elrohir breathed softly, his lips curled in a soft smile at the well loved story before he glanced down, the sinews of his jaw growing taut beneath his warmly tanned skin.

"I have felt kinship with Calassë from our first meeting," he admitted, his voice soft in his. "And she has only grown dearer to me these last days-,"

Galadriel lowered her eyes and nodded thoughtfully, somberly at this. "She has spoken to you of the memories that have returned, that have troubled her? She spoke not at all to me."

Elrohir nodded, his lips pursed as he studied the ground at his feet, setting the arrow he had been fashioning aside, unfinished as he clasped his hands, and bent his head in quiet misery.

"That is good," Galadriel sighed, reaching out and encircling her slender white through the crook of his arm. "It has been painful for her, and for you to hear, for you share her pain. But you have given her the comfort she sorely needed. Glad indeed am I, that you have come. No other could have given her such healing as you."

"Except perhaps, for Lord Glorfindel," Elrohir sighed, lifting his head somewhat. "Had he come, surely she would have remembered who she was, instead of recalling only half forgotten memories that have been changed with time."

"She remembers more clearly, my dear one, than perhaps you may wish to think," Galadriel murmured gently, to which Elrohir sighed, lifted his shoulders, and let them fall again.

"She says she once lived in Gondolin," he sighed dejectedly. "She speaks of how her father fell in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, how her mother died of grief-," Elrohir glanced swiftly at Galadriel, studying her deep, wise eyes. "She speaks of the HiddenCity. Of the Lady Idril, of my grandfather, of Maeglin who betrayed them all, as if she knew each of them, intimately. But none of this could be so!"

"Indeed?" Galadriel breathed softly. "And why do you think that what she speaks of, could not be so, my cherished grandson?"

Elrohir swallowed sharply and shook his head. "Were her words true, she would have been taken during the Fall of Gondolin! I cannot endure to think of her suffering in such a wretched state since the Second Age, Grandmother!" Elrohir gestured wildly with his free arm.

Galadriel did not speak, though her eyes drooped. And she nodded sorrowfully.

"Perhaps her father fell in the Last Alliance. Or perchance, the Battle of the Five Armies, of which I took part, with the Elves of Mirkwood." Elrohir gulped desperately, raking lean, trembling fingers through his dark hair. "And I wonder. For her features resemble somewhat, those of the lady, Ithilwen who dwells now with kin in Imladris, though her parents dwell in King Thranduil's realm. Her father could have fallen in either of those great battles, for Calassë cannot remember her own age. She could be younger than a century, for as youthful as she appears-,"

"I do not think that she is," Galadriel murmured thoughtfully. "I can see nothing of dear Calassë's past, or kin, but my heart is beginning to tell me that her memories are clearer than we may wish to think they are."

"She is not of Gondolin, Grandmother," Elrohir grumbled softly, setting his jaw tightly. "She could not be! Among the memories she claims to possess but which could not truly be, she is certain that she was once my grandfather's nurse! Yet I have read of the history of Gondolin, and of its fall. It is mentioned, briefly that Eärendil had a nurse who was lost in the Fall-, nothing else is mentioned of her, nothing of her kin, nor how she died, though surely it was terrible. And it is written in the histories that she was called Meleth."

"It is also written in the histories that I was called Nerwen," Galadriel added gently. "Such was the name my mother gave me. And Artanis I was called by my father." A soft flush of color darkened Galadriel's cheeks. "Though they are ever mine, yet I do not give them as my name. For I favor the name your grandfather gave me."

Elrohir frowned softly. He could hear his heart pounding in his throat as a strange premonition drew across his heart. "Calassë and my grandfather's nurse, Meleth, are not the same maiden, Grandmother! I cannot believe it."

Galadriel sighed softly at this, and leaning toward him, pressed a soft kiss to his taut cheek. "It is perhaps more difficult for you to face the memories of her past, than it is, for her. Yet as painful as your caring for her may become-," Galadriel sighed as Elrohir shifted wordlessly at this, and turned his eyes toward her, studying their blue depths, fathomless as the ocean. "She needs you, Elrohir. She needs your strength."

With that, the Lady of the Golden Wood stood, and with graceful ease, glided away, casting him a tender smile over her shoulder before she slipped away, and into the trees.

Elrohir sighed softly before he caught up the unfinished arrow, his fingers absently performing their task before he finished his work, and set the shaft aside, then bent his head as if in weary thought. Long he sat thusly, his head bent, his hands clasped, musing over his grandmother's words before footsteps interrupted him, and a pair of male voices came at him along the path.

He lifted his head. Rumil and Orophin came striding near, grinning over some shared joke and he stood as they approached him.

"Ho, my lord," Rumil called out merrily as the brothers stopped upon the path before him, and traded a look that said well enough that he was the subject of their amusement. "How do you fare?"

"Well enough," Elrohir returned quietly.

Orophin cocked a brow at this, trading a bemused look with his brother. "Indeed? You look positively besotted, my lord. No witty words from you today?" he chuckled softly. "Surely you are either unwell, or the absence of our fair Calassë, for she is not beside you as she so often is, has left you rudderless and lost."

"Calassë?" he asked almost absently, to which the brothers both chuckled heartily.

"Indeed it is so, my brother!" Rumil hissed merrily, nudging Orophin. "As you have said! He has been struck a fatal blow, I fear. And soon his bachelorhood will pass into memory, to be mourned by those of us who have not yet fallen victim to the love of a maiden!"

"True enough," Orophin returned with a twisted grin. "But surely the poor man is not beyond hope?" He approached Elrohir and clapped a companionable hand upon the other Elf's shoulder. "Surely there is something we can do for you, my lord?"

Elrohir shook himself at this, and drew back, blinking his eyes as if returning suddenly to his wits. "Indeed, there is!" he returned.

"Ah, that is well!" Orophin returned smiling, though his grin faded to a look of question as Elrohir stooped, and gather up the bundle of arrows he had been fashioning, and shoved them raspy and brittle, into Orophin's arms. "Carry these for me, to the armory. I have a task of great import, which I must see quickly to."

Orophin stared at him, wordless over the pile of arrow shafts, before Rumil chuckled. "He means, dear brother, that he must seek out Lady Calassë." And to this, Orophin's grin returned.

But before his teasing tone could return however, Elrohir had turned away from them. "Fare well, this fine day, my friends," he called over his shoulder before he broke into a swift run, his feet taking him down the path, up and over the knoll where Calassë had disappeared minutes before arm in arm with Lothirien.

The path dipped and turned through the trees, laced with striations of light and shadow until it ended at the crest of a low hill, and dropped down into a fair, sunlit clearing.  
>Well ordered rows of berry bushes littered the grassy space, their branches dripping with ripe fruit. The cheerful voices of many women echoed up toward him as they busily picked the ripe berries, dropping them by handfuls, into the baskets they carried over an arm.<p>

Calassë stood in the center of the clearing her back to him, a basket over one arm as she plucked the small ripe fruit from the bush she stood before. Her golden hair hung loose about the slender curves of her shoulders in a trailing cloud of gold, and as she turned to trade brief pleasantries with a maiden near to her, a slim, pert smile graced the warm curve of her mouth. She was adorned in a plain, workaday gown of soft doe brown, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing the smooth white flesh of her slender forearms. Elrohir sighed softly, unable to deny the warm stirring that moved within him. For she was as beautiful as if she was adorned in the fairest gown.

Several of the nearest maidens noted him, and Elrohir good naturedly returned their bright smiles and waving hands, though his eyes quickly returned again to Calassë, whose fair eyes raised to an approaching friend.

"My lady, Lothirien!" she laughed at Haldir's lady who drew near, hefting a heavy basket loaded with ripe fruit.

"You know your lord would chide you, my lady, for straining yourself as you are," Calassë chided teasingly, her merry voice carrying easily to Elrohir.

To this, Lothirien rolled her eyes petulantly. "My lord, Haldir, over worries himself, though he strives most admirably not to," she returned, touching a hand to her yet narrow abdomen. "I am doing nothing over strenuous. If my beloved wishes to scold me, then I shall have to silence him with kisses, and remind him in sundry ways that I am not a weakling simply because I carry his child within me!"

Calassë giggled quietly at this, her fair face coloring in what Elrohir felt was a most alluring shade at the lady's cheerfully brazen words.

Lothirien smiled teasingly at this, and put a gentle hand about the girl's shoulders, squeezing companionable, light dancing in Calassë's eyes.

After a brief moment, Lothirien gave the maiden a final squeeze, and stepped away, hefting her burdened basket down the rows of fruit laden bushes, leaving Calassë alone. And Elrohir took this as his opportunity, descending the low hill to the floor of the small dell, and drawing nearer toward the golden haired maiden, his tread silent and light beneath the soft leather soles of his boots.

She did not turn, and pausing a space behind her, Elrohir calmed his swiftly beating heart before he opened his mouth, and softly murmured, "La-, Lady Meleth?"

Calassë paused, her hand poised lightly before the bush where she was about to pluck another berry. And slowly, her movements excruciatingly graceful, she turned. Her eyes found his, and she smiled, washing Elrohir's soul in warm sunlight even as his mind reeled at the heavy weight of his sudden understanding.

"Yes, my dear lord, Eärendil?" she asked gently, the soft sapphire of her eyes finding him as a warm flush once again crept into her lovely face. "What is it?"

...

*From Unfinished Tales, Part Two: The Second Age, "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn"

"_Later in this essay it is said that though called Nerwen ("man-maiden") by her mother and Artanis ("noble woman") by her father, the name she chose to be her Sindarin name was _Galadriel,_ `for it was the most beautiful of her names, and had been given to her by her lover, Celeborn, of the Teleri, whom she wedded later in Beleriand_.'"

~Quenya and Telerin form of the name was Alatáriel~


	42. Chapter 41

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 41

March 28, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Lalaith stirred in the darkness of her dreams. Dark-, why was it so dark? Were her eyes closed as she slept? She had not slept thusly since she was an Elfling, excepting for the time now more than sixty years past, when she was dangerously ill in Mirkwood after a spider had bitten her. She, in her bitter weariness, had slept with closed eyelids then. And why was all about her, her clothes, her hair, so damp as if with-, not water. For it seemed lighter, and yet more clinging even as it fell upon her from above, as if it were rain. Beside her and below her, something clattered noisily upon stone, and she jerked, struggling to open her eyes, though she could not.

Where was she? Why this strange heaviness of limbs?

Someone stood over her, the feet of the figure near her shoulder. And she could feel the hand of another within her own, and a presence near her. Warm the near form was, feverish even, though his hand was firm and strong, and lent her a measure of comfort, returning her weakened squeeze with a softened tightening of his own grip as if in reassurance.

Faramir-, She tried to speak. She struggled to rise from the oblivion in which she was cradled though the slightest stirring set her head to pounding furiously as if her skull was near to rending asunder, and it seemed better in her weary, half drowsing mind, to lay still.

Beneath them both, the bed upon which they lay was harsh and uneven, roughly bundled faggots of wood, digging into her back. And the acrid taste of the poisoned cloth still lingered in her nostrils, and she recalled again, Denethor's words, and what he had done. What did he mean to do with her then?

"Set a fire in our flesh," the voice sounded above her, soft and trembling unevenly, and she heard the flurry of sodden robes.

Fire? she wondered wearily as the crack and flicker of a torch flame near her ear, drew closer.

Though Pippin had known no swifter steed than Shadowfax, it seemed to the young Hobbit that Shadowfax could not fly fast enough as the cream colored horse, bearing him, and the wizard before him, up the sloping path toward the citadel. As Shadowfax surged into the wane light, He could see the dome of the Tomb of the Stewards over upon Rath Dínen rising up, and fancied he could already smell smoke-,

No, no! Oh, no! Pippin despaired. Had the Witch King delayed them too long? He could not bear to be too late-,

But then he noted briefly, that the wafting smoke came from behind him, wafting up like a fume from the lower levels, and he turned his head, catching briefly, a glimpse over the stone balustrade, and he thought he could see, only distantly, horses, mounted by Men clad in green capes, surging through the hosts of the orcs.

But then the view was gone, for Shadowfax did not slow as he thundered away across the high courtyard and with a great clatter, across the arched causeway toward the tombs, toward the House of the Stewards. The door, as he peered from behind Gandalf's shoulder, was still shut fast as it had been, when Denethor had cast him out, and bolted it behind him.

But Shadowfax was undaunted, and with a great whinny, he reared up, and clashed his hooves into the wrought iron of the doorway. The doors crashed inward, shuddering as they went. Two guards who stood near the door bearing tall spears in their hands, gaped at the wizard's sudden entrance while in the center of the piled mound of kindling within the circular chamber, Denethor stood, dark and foreboding, above the still forms of Lalaith and Faramir, his robes and hair drenched in sticky, clinging oil. Four armored soldiers stood about the pyre, torches in their hands, reluctance and fear upon their faces as the flickering of the flames they held, moved ever nearer toward the oil soaked kindling. Denethor's face grew dark and furious as he spun to glare upon the intruders.

"Stay this madness!" Gandalf cried loudly, his voice trembling through the very stones. The soldiers near the pyre jerked their torches away from the kindly as they turned to face Gandalf. And Pippin's heart leaped in his throat as upon the pyre, Lalaith visibly twitched at the sound of his voice.

With a bitter snarl, Denethor reached out, snatching the torch from the hand of the nearest guard and turned toward the wizard, dark and furious as he clenched the shaft of the torch, the writhing flames lighting his lean face and scowling eyes lit with a wild gleam.

"You may triumph on the field of battle for a day, but against the power that has risen in the east, there can be no victory," he seethed. Then with his free hands, he drew from beneath the sodden weight of his cloak, a dark orb, and held it aloft.

Pippin felt his limbs grow suddenly cold as he studied the light that moved and flickered within the dark depths of the orb. "A palantir!" he gasped and at his voice, Lalaith stirred again, and moaned as if she spoke from the midst of a dark dream, "Pippin?"

"Lalaith-," Pippin choked, clinging to Gandalf's sleeve as he lifted pleading eyes to the wizard as Gandalf gazed hard upon Denethor.

"Pride and despair!" Denethor cried, his knuckles straining as his hand tightened about the flickering orb. "Your hope is ignorance, Grey fool! All the East is moving, and even now the wind of your hope cheats you and wafts up Anduin a fleet with black sails. Go into their hands if you must, wallow in thralldom if it be your will, and the will of your foolishly merry halfling, but these fair children you will not take with you!" And with a heavy thrust, Denethor flung the torch into the kindling.

"Lalaith!" Pippin screamed, watching from behind Gandalf's arm as the oil soaked kindling ignited swiftly. Gandalf stiffened as well at the horrific sight, and leaning forward, he urged Shadowfax into a run as he snatched the spear from the hands of the nearest door guard.

The hooves of Shadowfax clattered sharply down the hall as they neared the pyre, the flames racing greedily around the encircled kindling.

"Pippin? Pippin!" Lalaith cried louder now, writhing upon the pyre as the flames encircled her, and drew near.

As Shadowfax circled the flaming pyre, Gandalf lifted the spear he bore, and swung it with a wide arch upward where the haft smacked hard into the center of Denethor's chest, and flung him heavily off the smoking pyre to land upon the stone floor with a heavy thump.

"Lalaith!" Pippin cried then, scrambling to his feet upon the horse's back. And thinking nothing of the burning flames, he leapt wildly to the center of the pyre, between the two forms of the Man and the Elf maiden. He fell heavily upon his knees between them, and the rough knot of one of the sticks stabbed cruelly through the cloth of his breeches, and into the flesh of his knee, but Pippin took no notice.

"Lalaith!" he shrieked, scrambling up, and grasping her head, where the dreadful flames were licking hungrily toward her golden hair pillowed about her, damp and heavy with oil.

"Pippin," she groaned, opening her closed eyelids, struggling up as she stared in mounting horror at the flames that surrounded them, and at Faramir's inert form.

"Faramir-," a fit of coughing seized her as she rolled weakly to her knees, but she had no need to say more as both she and Pippin scrambled to Faramir's side, each grasping onto the leather of his jerkin as they struggled to push his heavy form over the rising flames.

Lalaith was still weak, Pippin could tell from whatever poison had rendered her helpless, and the greater part of the burden lay with him. Digging his feet into the flaming sticks behind him, he pushed with all that his small body could muster, until he heaved the tall Man's heavy form over the ragged edge of the piled kindling, and the Man's form tumbled heavily over the side, dragging Pippin with him. Lalaith toppled over as well, rolling free upon the stones, though Faramir's weight came down heavily upon the Hobbit as Pippin's head struck the stone floor with a crack.

Pain lanced through his skull, but Pippin gave it no thought. A portion of Faramir's breeches was afire, and the Hobbit scrambled desperately to his side, slapping wildly at the flames. Lalaith, weak dizzy, staggered upon her knees to Pippin's side, and joined him, desperately slapping as the angry flames bit and burnt their fingers.

"No!" A cry, unnatural and wild, assailed their ears as Denethor staggered wildly around the flaming pyre, clutching the palantir against his chest with one hand as he snatched Lalaith by the arm, dragging the maiden back as if he meant to bodily cast her into the flames.

"No!" Pippin cried, grasping at Denethor's arm, struggling to free Lalaith from the desperate man's iron hold, before Denethor could cast Lalaith, weak and helpless, and struggling in vain against him, back into the raging fire. But Denethor's hold was too strong, and Pippin could not break her free.

"You will not take my children from me!" Denethor wailed.

"No, no!" Pippin cried out in despair.

Hooves clattered near from about the raging flames, and suddenly Shadowfax was near, Gandalf upon his back, as the white steed reared back, and struck Denethor in the chest. His hold broke free of both the Hobbit and the Elf as the Steward flew back upon the burning pyre.

"Lalaith-," Pippin gasped, grasping Lalaith's arm, and half dragging her back from the flames as Denethor, sprawled in the center of the great burning, lifted his head, and found his son, laying still and motionless upon the stone floor.

"Faramir-," Lalaith breathed softly as Pippin dragged her free of the heat. She drew in a long breath, her strength gradually returning, and clapped Pippin's arm, nodding toward Faramir. And Pippin, wondering, followed her gaze.

The Steward's son had turned his head, where he lay, his eyes drawing slightly open as he gazed toward his father trapped in the midst of the burning.

"Faramir-," Denethor gasped from within the flames as they swirled inward just as the wild flames, like greedy demons, caught hold upon Denethor's oil soaked robes, and engulfed him.

Pippin willed himself to turn away from the ghastly scene, but his muscles were frozen in dread and would not obey him as Denethor's screams of agony filled the echoing hallway.

Like a wretched creature of living flame, the man, fully engulfed now, though Pippin could still see the palantir glimmering in the midst of the flame, leapt down from the pyre, and fled crying in his misery, from the hall.

"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," Gandalf muttered, his voice thick with mourning, and resignation.

Faramir lay motionless upon the floor, his eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling as Lalaith crawled to him and knelt over him, touching his heated face, and his sweat dampened hair in a gesture of comfort. But something drew Pippin away from all of this, and he scrambled to his feet, running after the man who had fled, burning.

"My lord!" he cried, darting out of the House of the Stewards, and peered eastward, seeing a streak of flame darting across the green sward, and past the withered white tree, running like a wild fiend toward the edge of the out-thrust pinnacle.

Pippin gasped, and fled away from Rath Dínen toward the citadel. "My lord!" he cried, for the fleeing creature of flame showed no sign of stopping. Yet Pippin knew his words were lost even as he ran. For the flaming shape plunged over the blade of the pinnacle, and was lost to his view.

Still, Pippin continued to run, why, he knew not. Until he came to the green sward, cool beneath his feet, and he stopped, gasping for breath, and bent double, his hands upon his knees. The guards were gone, dismissed, Pippin guessed, in Denethor's last despair.

Far away and down within the plains, he could hear the sounds of battle raging. The Rohirrim were fighting the orcs. He shuddered, weary from his swift run, and begin to lift his heavy head. And then he saw it.

The palantir of Denethor, gleaming upon the grass where the Steward had dropped it in his last agony.

It gleamed like the one Pippin had taken from Gandalf's arm that night in Rohan, and as his eyes looked on it, he recalled the subtle temptation he had felt, the urgent call that seemed to beckon to him from within the distant flickering flame that undulated within the hidden, distant depths of the dark, glassy sphere.

What would the harm be? a distant voice queried within him. Just to look at it, one more time?

Pippin shuddered at the thought. "Remember, Pip," he muttered to himself recalling the darkness, the bitter despair when he had lain hands upon the other seeing stone. "Remember-, that's what Merry would say."

And with these words, he turned his eyes with effort from the winking lights within the glassy orb, unclipped his leaf brooch, and slung the cloak off of his shoulders. And with a quick movement, he flung his cloak over the palantir, and scooped the warm grey fabric around it, hefting up its weight, and slinging it over his shoulder like a sack.

And with a low sigh, glancing back to the spot where he had seen Denethor fling himself out, he turned his feet back toward Rath Dínen, and slowly started back to relay all that he had seen, and to surrender the fallen palantir into Gandalf's capable hands.


	43. Chapter 42

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 42

April 7, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

"Hush, fair one, I am here-," Elrohir's voice was soft in the still air of twilight in the forest as he sat with Calassë in a silver-wrought seat upon the balcony of his grandparent's talan, one arm clutching her tightly to him as they gazed together over the silver shadows of the twilight in Caras Galadhon. Upon his other side, he held a thick tome bound in silver that he had only just closed. Lights were winking on in the flets below them as a sweet, silver darkness settled softly over the woods in a warm, comforting blanket.

Calassë, huddled against him, her head tucked endearingly beneath his chin, was crying softly against his tunic, the slender, tapered fingers of her free hand clinging tightly to the leather of his jerkin.

"And that is how it came to pass, before you were settled safely in the mouths of Sirion, by the sea?"

Elrohir drew in a shuddering breath, clutching her protectively closer to him. "It is," he murmured.

"So many dear ones, lost," she choked softly. "Our noble king, and brave Ecthelion-, so many fair ones, women-, children-," she shuddered softly and choked upon a soft sob. "And dear Salgant, not the least of them. Dear sweet Salgant! How I adored the silly fool! Oft would he come to your mother's house, to take wine and repast, and tease me for my unwed state! How you laughed when he dandled you upon his knee! Never among the Eldar has there ever been so fat, nor so foolishly merry an Elf, Eärendil, as dear Salgant."

Calassë caught a ragged sob within her throat, and Elrohir let the book fall beside him as he took her in both his arms, and clutched her close tightening his hold as if he feared to let her go.

His voice soft and grating in anguish, he muttered, "I am sorry I have caused you tears in telling you of all of this-,"

"Alas, no!" she returned quickly. "I wished for you to! And I am glad of it, pained as I am. Do not despair that I cry, Eärendil. For they are healing tears."

She nuzzled his neck reassuringly before she sighed brokenly, drawing back slightly as a brief smile touched her face. "I always knew that Glorfindel could slay a balrog. Though-," her eyes grew troubled. "How can such a thing be, that once slain, he could return from the Halls of Mandos?"

"Anything can be, if it is the will of Ilúvatar. The fallen may return to life by His power-," Elrohir turned his eyes downward toward hers as she lifted her eyes to meet his own, and a great breath heaved in his chest as he studied the nearness of her softly parted lips. "The captive be restored to those who love her."

"Captive-," she breathed, shuddering fiercely, and glanced down at her hands, lifting them and turning them over before her face as if seeing them for the first time. "Eär- Eärendil-," she called out, her voice one of fearful pleading. "How long was it, this forgotten thralldom? How is it, that-,"

"Forgive me," he grated swiftly, catching her face in his hands, and pressing his brow against hers. "We will not speak of such things on a fair night as this." And shivering she nodded, her eyes softened like a child's who has been wakened suddenly and mercifully from a wicked, fearful dream.

"Come," he smiled warmly, drawing slightly back, and studying the endearing way that her small, pale, unblemished hands clung so desperately to his own, larger and tanned, bearing slight calluses. "Let us speak of happy things, and let us be merry! Tell me, instead, of your names, and why they were given."

Calassë's brow furrowed slightly, though Elrohir could see the glimmer of light within her eyes, for which his heart grew warm.

"Meleth my mother called me the day I was born and it remained mine, ever after," she murmured softly at last, her eyes misting with distant memory. "For the love between my father and mother was great, and I was a child of their love. All within the king's kindred but Maeglin spoke of me by that name." She swallowed softly, her face slowly beginning to fall. "Always, Maeglin called me Lissien, a pet-name that dear Salgant fashioned for me when I was a child, and was sweet to my ears when he spoke it, though upon the lips of Eöl's son, it sounded bitter. Never did I understand why-,"

"Meleth? Lissien?" Elrohir cut in with a soft laugh, hoping to draw her despondent thoughts away from Maeglin and his treachery. And he was glad that his teasing tone could coax a slight smile to her soft lips. "Both of them fair and fine names, indeed! And why did you remember the name, Calassë? Doubtless there is a reason. It was cherished to you, of a surety, and dearer, perhaps than your others. Why was it so? Do you remember?"

Calassë sighed absently. And her eyes, no longer troubled, lifted to Elrohir's, filled with warm light.

She spoke not at all, but her small white hand lifted, and lightly touched the firm warmth of his jaw. Elrohir could not help but draw in a long breath at her touch, closing his eyes, and turning into the warmth of her soft caress.

"The Valar bless your Eärendil, for your gentleness and your patience." Calassë drew in and released a soft sigh. "Calassë indeed, was secretly the dearest of my names. Fair to me above all others. To my ears, it was the most beautiful."

Her smile was like warm sunlight upon his heart.

"And why was it so?" he murmured softly, uncertain why he would speak with bated breath. "Who-, who gave it to you?"

"My lord!"

Below him upon the shadow drenched ground, a frantic voice, Rumil's voice, tore through the sweetened silence like a knife through a delicate, silver shroud.

Elrohir threw himself to his feet, shoving his suddenly heavy thoughts to the back of his mind as he strode to the silver fluted railing and caught it beneath his hands, his eyes finding the yellow haired Elf upon the shadowed ground.

Rumil's bow was in his hands, his quiver but half filled with arrows, and the robes enwrapping his chest were damp with sweat, heaving from swift exertion.

"What is it, Rumil?" he demanded as Calassë slowly joined him at the railing, her hand warm and soft, tentatively closing over his own.

"Fetch Lord Celeborn at once, my lord!" Rumil cried, his frantic voice echoing through the softened silence of the night. "For Dol Guldur has launched another assault!"

Calassë bit her lip softly as she glided upward about the circling steps that twined about the truck of the Mallorn the golden light of the morning as it filtered down through the canopy above her as she approached the feet of the Mallorn where a set of winding stairs twined about the thick trunk of the tree. Two young maidens near her own age were sitting together upon a wide stone beside the trail, Celebwen, and Niriel, their usually merry chatter subdued, as they spoke furtively together of the hopes that soon word would come from their men folk upon the eastern borders. Celebwen had a basket filled with the silver strands of raw, untwined thread beside her as she spoke. Her hands were moving quickly as she busily twisted strands of raw lint into fine thread, twining it slowly upon a carven distaff in her lap. Calassë paused as she watched the maiden's work, a brief memory tugging softly at the corners of her mind.

"Ah, our dear Calassë!" Niriel cried of a sudden, noticing her, and Celebwen lifted her eyes in welcome as she set her work beside her. Niriel rose and hurried forward as Calassë drew tentatively nearer.

Through worried, though smiling eyes, Niriel observed Calassë as she came, and Calassë touched a hand against the cloth of her a new gown of silvery green that had been fashioned for her, to fit the slim curves of her body. The throat was hemmed with delicately embroidered vines and leaves, and the sleeves of the gown hung long and open to her small pale hands, which Niriel caught in her own.

"You look lovely, Calassë!" the maiden exclaimed squeezing her hands, and Calassë smiled softly.

"Indeed," called Celebwen from behind her companion as she placed her twining spool into the basket, and rose to draw near. "We are glad to see you well, and about."

"Thank you," Calassë answered, returning the squeeze gratefully. "Though my heart is as fearful for my dear lord Eärendil, as it was, the first time the men were called to the eastern borders-," She dropped her eyes, unaware of the subdued exchange between the two maidens at the mention of Eärendil's name.

Celebwen whispered softly, "The poor dear one-,"

"She will know, in time, so our Lady says," Niriel returned softly. "Our young lord will tell her, himself, when she is ready."

"Forgive me for causing all of you such distress before when the men were called away," Calassë continued. lifting her head, and the two maidens glanced once again at her, smiling. "After you have all been so kind-,"

"There is nothing to forgive, my friend!" Celebwen exclaimed with a soft laugh that ended in a sigh as she joined them, and pressed Calassë's hand gently. "We are simply glad to know that you are healing. The distress that yet remains, that which you feel for-," a curious look of hesitation came over the maiden's face, and the two girls exchanged a quiet look which Calassë wondered at before the girl shook herself and continued. "It is a natural thing. Well do we understand your fear for the safety of-, our noble young lord." She squeezed Calassë's hand comfortingly, and Calassë smiled softly. "For our own lovers have gone with him, and we know not what news will come from the battle."

"Before his departure, Eärendil read to me of the Fall of Gondolin," Calassë offered quietly. "I must confess, I wept-,"

Niriel and Celebwen smiled softly, and the two maidens touched her shoulders comfortingly.

"And so you truly are a child of-, of Gondolin?" Niriel asked.

"Indeed, I am," Calassë returned, drawing in an involuntary sigh. Oh, why did so many others seem to wonder so at such a thing? Had she not been telling them all along, that Gondolin had been her home? How was it, then, that they found her story so remarkable?

"I am glad, though, that my dear Eärendil was saved, that his father and mother were able to lead some few of our people to safety to the dwell by the mouths of Sirion. And I am glad to learn that though Glorfindel fell-," her words faded as a chilled shudder wracked her body. Why did such a thought leave such a chill in her? Why did his name come so easily to her lips, yet she could not recall how she knew him? Surely he had been dearer to her than she could now remember.

"Though he fell, he returned again," Celebwen finished for her, and the words seemed to envelope Calassë in a warm mist of peace, banishing the previous chill.

"Yes," Calassë finished softly, before she shook herself, and smiled, remembering her previous task.

"Lady Lothirien dwells upon this talan, does she not?" she asked, indicating to the circular steps leading up into the higher branches of the tree. "She has not come to our Lady's dwelling, and Nana-," Calassë sighed, though the two maidens seemed not to notice the slip of her tongue. "Lady Galadriel bid me come to see if she is well."

"She does dwell here, indeed," Niriel returned. "Though neither of us has seen her this morning."

"Perhaps being with child wearies her," Celebwen offered helpfully. "My mother bore two sons after me, and well do I remember how weary she became, even in the earlier months."

"Or perhaps, she has darted off to battle again, to join her beloved!" Niriel offered, with a soft laugh, which Celebwen returned, shaking her head. Calassë raised her brows. Lady Lothirien had been in battle before? Quiet, graceful, demure Lothirien? She found herself smirking at the thought.

"Nay," Celebwen countered. "Not when she has her lord's child to think of. Doubtless she is only weary, and has slept beyond the sun's rising."

"Then perhaps I shall go up, and see," Calassë offered, and with a grateful wave, she turned toward the silver fluted steps and tripped lightly up them, one by one until she came to an arching doorway.

A light tap brought no answer, and so Calassë caught the latch, and pushed softly upon the wood, the doorway giving easily beneath her fingers.

"Lady Lothirien?" she called, poking her head into the circular sitting chamber at the fore the small, but elegant house Lothirien shared with her lord, Haldir. Several passageways and doorways led away, out of her sight, stairs circling up into branches unseen above her head. The ceiling was generously high, and the windows were large and peaked to let in generous amounts of light, the lattices interlaced with fluted designs imitating trailing, weaving vines. Against a nearby wall, sat a shelf lined with a small selection of books bound in silver and soft leather. And in the center of the chamber, there were several cushioned chairs set about a low carven table upon a richly woven rug. Upon the polished surface of the table, a small pair of bare feet was propped, the owner invisible beyond the high backed divan which faced away from her.

"Lothirien?" Calassë called, entering the chamber tentatively, and approaching the figure who stirred and sighed in response to her name.

Calassë smiled as the sight of Lothirien, clad in a sleeping shift came into her view, a silver bound tome resting upon her yet narrow stomach as her body lay curled like a slender cat upon the couch, her eyes lifted to the ceiling, unfocused. A basket much like Celebwen's rested on the floor beside her sleeping form, unfinished thread twined upon the distaff that sat idle upon the mounds of raw lint that had yet to be wound.

"Ai, my lady," Calassë chided softly as she drew the book from her limp hands. "Doubtless I shall find it as difficult as you have, to sleep alone when I have found a-," Calassë blushed to herself at the thought. "A husband," she finished as she closed the book softly, and turned it in her hands to read the gold delved inscription upon the cover.

`Of Beren and Lúthien'

Calassë smiled at this, and unthinking, she sat in the cushioned chair beside her friend's sleeping form and placed the book upon the table before her, and let it fall open, her eyes perusing the scrolling markings that had been drawn there as she absently took up the distaff from the basket beside her, her own hands twisting the lint unthinkingly into a slender, flawless thread. She blinked softly, her heart catching in her throat as she followed the words, "And after much hardship, Beren came stumbling into Doriath grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been the torment of the road. But wandering in the summer in the woods of Neldoreth he came upon Lúthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian, at a time of evening under moonrise as she danced upon the unfading grass in the glades beside Esgalduin..."

Calassë stopped short, struck with the familiarity of what she was doing, twining as she read, though she could not remember how she had learned to do either. Often had she done that before when-,

A ghost of a memory, like an elusive scent upon a forgotten breeze, brushed through her mind.

"Ho, lapsë onómë, my little Calassë," Glorfindel chuckled as he strode to the divan across from her, and flung himself casually upon it, observing her with a teasing smirk as he propped an arm beneath his head. Calassë looked up from the words she had been hungrily devouring, and grinned at him. "Once again reading as you do you twining?" He nodded at the book beside her, and the distaff rolled with shimmering thread that she held in her lap. "Well you know I should scold you for that, though I will not. You boast the finest thread in the market. You could dance as you twined, and the quality would not suffer.

"Nay, I do not jest!" he cried as Calassë shook her head, laughing. Glorfindel grinned, rising to sit up, and lean forward, his elbows upon his knees, and his eyes grew warm. "For you are a fair dancer, fair as you are beautiful. For I have seen you dance upon festival days with the other maidens, and with-," his eyes darkened slightly even as they filled with a hint of pleading. "With Maeglin, though there are other men who admire your beauty, and who wish dance with you, if you permitted them. But they dare not speak of their intentions-,"

Calassë gulped softly, her thoughts returned to her as the elusive memory faded from her mind, leaving naught but wisps of thread behind. Her eyes fell to the distaff, the thread twined upon it, realizing that she had added a significant portion as she had recalled the faint memory.

With a sigh, she replaced the wooden distaff in Lothirien's basket, and reached for the thick book, closing it softly.

"I remember the small white school upon the corner of the market, where mother sent me to learn with the other children-," she breathed softly, hefting the weight in her hands, drinking in the old familiar scent of leather and parchment as she drew it near to her face. "I remember-, I remember sitting upon the grass beside-, beside Glorfindel, so tall when I was a child-," a chill shuddered through her body. "He helped me learn how to read-,"

A stirring and a soft sigh beside her, reminded her of the present, and the faint memory was gone. She turned toward Lothirien with a smile upon her face, and rose softly from the chair. Doubtless, her friend had stayed up into the late hours of the night, reading the story of the two lovers, pining for her own lord, and now she slept wearily. At this understanding, Calassë turned, and with silent steps, made her way toward the shelf of books, meaning to replace the tome, and hurry back to Galadriel with the news.

But she paused briefly as she placed the book upon the polished golden wood of the shelf, perusing the other silver bound tomes in thoughtful contemplation.

`Nirnaeth Arnoediad', read the silver inscribed binding of one book, but Calassë shuddered, and glanced quickly away. Well she knew of that battle, and did not wish to read of it more, now that the men were away, and in peril.

`Akallabêth-The Downfall of Númenor' read another one.

Númenor-, Eärendil has spoken of it before, but the title seemed too sad for her to read now, and she wished for her heart to be light, that she might greet her dear Eärendil with a bright face upon his return.

Dear Eärendil, she sighed to herself. A child no longer, but a man, noble and kingly as his forebearers, and of such manly beauty that she could not breath to think of him-, And to feel his arms about her when he held her, she knew her pain could never be unbearable, the blackest memory of her forgotten thralldom could not break her, if she endured it in his arms. How he had changed-,

What has happened to me? she breathed to herself, pausing and placing a hand upon her heart to quell a curious aching that pulsed there as she pictured his fair visage in her mind. I loved him as a child. Yet now, this which I feel, this sweet aching tenderness, I did not feel, before-,

Her eyes stopped of a sudden, upon a blessedly familiar name, and the pang in her heart throbbed all the more fiercely as she drank in the silver etched words.

`Eärendil the Mariner'

With a soft, eager gasp, she snatched the tome from the shelf. Though he was not here with her, sheltering her in the warm strength of his embrace, still she could have thoughts of him near her.

"You shall not mind, if I borrow this for a brief time?" she asked eagerly, turning toward the sleeping woman before her. Lothirien sighed in her sleep.

And Calassë grinned widely as she hugged her newfound treasure to herself, and scampered from Lothirien's abode, darting with swift steps down the silver twining staircase, and to the forest floor.

Niriel and Celebwen, to her disappointment, were both gone now, and she sighed briefly as she flopped down upon the rock they had been sitting on, for she had wished to share her treasure with them.

Still, her spirits were not dampened long as she smiled and curled her legs beneath her upon the stone's flat surface as she drew the cover open to the first page, reverently as if she opened the lid of a chest sheltering a cache of precious jewels. Her lips drew up into a smile as she followed the first several lines of the page, for the story began where the Fall of Gondolin had ended, in the sweet restful havens nigh to Sirion's mouths.


	44. Chapter 43

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 43

April 18, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

His breath was hot and ragged in his lungs as Merry sliced his sword hard down upon the iron helm of an orc that came scrambling toward Windfola's left side. The blade struck his target with a harsh crack that stung his fingers, but the stroke was true, for the orc uttered a short harsh bark and fell away from him, limp, the creature's helmet dented inward.

Merry lifted his head, noise ringing in his ears as he glanced about himself, at the noise and chaos of battle. His heart was hammering swiftly in his throat as he glanced over the sea of mottled orcs that swarmed about the legs of the horses of the Rohirrim. He could feel Éowyn behind him, slicing and stabbing at the orcs that lunged at them from their right side.

He dropped his eyes quickly again, to stab the point of his sword home into another orc that came lunging and grunting toward him, a wicked curved blade raised to bring it down upon Windfola's neck.

He licked his dry lips swiftly, glancing up again as he noted the ranks of their enemies thinning, fleeing, even, back toward the distant river, and the broken fragments of a city that lay sprawled across it.

Merry allowed himself a small chuckle as his heart began to warm with courage.

"Drive them to the river!" he heard the voice of Éomer, Éowyn's brother, crying somewhere to his right.

"Make safe the city!" the king's voice called out as well, strong and deep. And with a cry, Éowyn wheeled the head of her mount about, and the thundering hooves of horses thrummed in his ears as the warriors of Rohan started after the fleeing orcs.

A laugh was beginning upon Merry's lips, his hopes high as the bent mottled creatures fled like squealing rats before him toward the river, into the dust and haze that had been stirred up by the fighting.

But something trembled through the ground beneath Windfola's scampering hooves which brought them and the horses about them to a shuddering halt.

Gasping upon the choking dust, Merry strained to see beyond the running orcs. What was it that was causing the horses to grow so skittish, that sent a wave of uneasiness worming through his frame?

And then the cries of the Rohirrim faded, and he could hear it. A sound which sent chills crackling along his limbs as it had when he had heard the first distant drumbeat in Moria.

A distant rolling cadence of a drum along with the echoing chant of men in a strange language he had never heard before, trembled through the dust choked air about him. And as the haze settled slowly, Merry's brows knit together in alarm, his heart all but stopping in his chest at what he saw.

Huge creatures, like great moving hills, were striding nearer across the plain. Their great legs were like trees, as round, nearly as the great trunks of the Mallyrn in the Golden Wood. Their snouts were long, like huge writhing snakes, while vast pointed teeth, like curving fangs, protruded from the sides of their cavernous mouths. The two longest of these huge teeth curved out nearly as long as their long snouts, and here and there upon these curving teeth of one or another of the creatures, were bound wretched looking spikes, that could skewer a horse through. Between these vast teeth of the nearest one to Merry, had been bound a great scything wire that had been drawn tightly, and woven through with sharp spikes, for the purpose, it looked, of slicing the legs from beneath horses and Men. Upon their backs had been strapped great platforms where dozens of men stood, bows in their hands, their faces shrouded with great wrappings of dark cloth. Upon the beasts' necks stood other men, guiding the animals with great cords that had been pierce through their ears, vast sheets of grey, flapping sails.

"Oliphaunts," he managed to mutter though his throat was hot and dry.

"What?" Éowyn gasped, her left arm tightening across his shoulders.

"The old rhyme was true," he muttered numbly. "I never gave much thought to it-,"

"Reform the line!" Théoden's voice, undaunted in its strength, cried out, carrying swiftly over the hosts of stuttering horses. "Reform the line!"

And her uncle's fearlessness seemed to give Éowyn strength as she stiffened behind Merry, and urged Windfola to the fore of the tightening line of mounted warriors.

"Sound the charge!" Théoden cried. "Take them head on."

A horn sounded out, echoed all along the line.

"Charge!" Théoden shouted, and Merry's heart leaped within him as he heard himself crying out, fear shoved far back in a forgotten corner of his mind as Éowyn with a determined cry, kicked her heels into Windfola's sides. With a sharp whinny, the horses of the Rohirrim charged forward toward the surging line of oliphaunts.

His heart was a hammer in his chest as the line of the Rohirrim drew near to the legs of the beasts. The oliphaunt nearest them lowered its head as the puny riders drew near, and began to swing its great head. Merry gasped, and cried out as a horse and its rider, not two paces before them, simply vanished from the ground as the horse emitted a wild squeal of pain. Shooting his eyes heavenward as Windfola screamed and veered to the side, avoiding the thunderous stomping of the beast's legs, Merry could see the impaled body of the horse upon the sharpened spikes bound to the ends of the oliphaunt's massive, protruding tooth. The rider had already been flung away, tumbling through the air like a lifeless doll. The oliphaunt shook its head, flinging the carcass of the horse away. And then the view was gone as Éowyn dug her heels into Windfola's side, urging her mount into the open space between the raging beast and its nearest companion.

Turning his head, she brought Windfola about, and Merry found himself facing the backs of the thundering beasts as they mowed their way through the Rohirrim who were coming behind.

Éowyn's breath was sharp and fast, and Merry felt her tense as an oliphaunt's heavy foot came down upon a rider, crushing both him and his horse into the earth.

"Come on!" she cried, her voice fierce and wild as she brought Windfola into a hard gallop as they surged back toward the raging beasts.

The oliphaunts were no longer in so tight a line as when they had made their first charge, the beasts turning now, one way and the other as they stomped about on the battlefield, a frothing mass of horses and men, and orcs now as well, who had turned about, and were coming back into the fighting with wild squeals of glee, seeking out the men who had been unhorsed, and who fought alone.

Éowyn and Merry made good use of their swords as Windfola cantered about the confusion, cutting down orcs here and there, though of a sudden, Éowyn brought Windfola to a sudden stop, a muffled cry erupting from her throat.

"Éomer!" Éowyn voice cried out from behind Merry, laced with despair. And as Merry turned to look, he could see the source of her fear.

The beast that had the cutting wire bound between its massive curving teeth, was scything through a group of horsemen, mowing them down as they fled from before it. Yet Éomer, his white plumed helmet easy to see, had drawn his mount to a halt, and sat high upon his horse's back, his eyes raised, unmoved as the beast rumbled nearer.

"Éomer!" she screamed despairing as the beast drew ever nearer though Merry knew her brother could not hear her in the mélee. But as it came on, its wicked scything wire scraping across the ground closer and closer to Éomer, the king's nephew raised his spear and flung it with all the mighty strength of his arm, not toward the head of the beast, but above it, just between its flapping ears.

Merry, breathless, turned to watch its flight, to see the spear strike true in the chest of the man who stood upon its neck. The man let out a screech and fell limp from his perch, his weight, wrapped in the cords with which he had guided the beast yanking taut upon the oliphaunt's left ear.

Merry caught a wild gasp in his throat as the beast, its head wrenched to the side, veered sharply to its left, swerving away from Éomer, its head twisted fiercely, bawling as it went until with a crash, it collided with one of its fellows, the scything wire strapped between its monstrous teeth knocking the other oliphaunt's legs from beneath it. Down they both went, amid cries and curses from the Easterlings within the fortresses mounted upon their backs as they tipped and fell, spilling men out upon the ground as the oliphaunts crashed to the ground, one on top of the other.

Éowyn released a hoarse cheer at this, and spun Windfola's head away from the scene, spurring her mount into a hard run across the trampled grass. The battlefield was a chaotic fracas of dust and screams, roaring oliphaunts, and everywhere, the sight of death.

Before them, an orc and a young rider who stood alone and unhorsed, were fighting furiously. The rider was too young even to have the first growth of manhood upon his youthful face. The orc, grasping an arm around the young man's neck, twisted him about with a shriek, and flung him to the ground, lifting his blade to bring it down into the young soldier's body.

"Take the reins!" Éowyn cried out to Merry, and he obeyed, snatching the leather strappings in his hands, his eyes wide as they drew nearer to the orc and its helpless prey.

"Pull left!" she shouted, and he did as she bid. And as they passed behind the seething orc, its curved blade raised to the sky, Éowyn reached out, and snatched the creature's blade right from its hands.

His eyes agape, Merry glanced back for a brief moment to see the young horseman catch his own fallen blade up, taking advantage of the orc's momentary surprise to stab his own blade home as the orc stiffened and fell.

"Left!" Éowyn ordered again, and Merry jerked his eyes forward, doing as she bid, as steel rang against steel across the battlefield, amid the trumpeting bellows of the oliphaunts, and the rumble of their stomping legs all about them.

A fearful squeak burst past Merry's lips as he saw the flailing head of an oliphaunt draw near, but then, miraculously, they were past its wickedly curving teeth, and suddenly they were between its forelegs.

With a cry, Éowyn swung the orc's stolen blade into the beast's leg into the bent joint, and a moment later, swung her own sword into the beast's other leg. Above them, the creature bawled its fury as they lunged beneath its grey belly and as they passed between its back legs, she released a shout of fury as she swung both blades deep into the oliphaunt's knees before they passed once again into the sunlight.

Wailing, the creature toppled, and collapsed as the platform upon its back slid and fell to the ground, Easterlings tumbling out with wild cries.

"Aim for their heads!" a familiar voice caused Éowyn's head to swivel toward it, and Merry recognized Éomer's shout. Not far away, the king's nephew as well as Gamling and many other horsemen, had encircled an oliphaunt, and were firing their arrows toward its mouth and eyes.

Bellowing in protest, the beast raised itself up upon its hind legs as if to ward off the ceaseless darts.

"Bring it down!" the king's voice cried out from nearby. "Bring it down!"

A javelin, thrust into the ground nearby, was snatched up into Éowyn's hands as she urged Windfola nearer toward the roaring beast. And with a thrust of her arm, flung the sharpened lance into the back of the beast's leg.

Down it fell heavily. But twisted as it came, and Merry gasped as its shadow fell over them, collapsing now, down onto the very spot where Windfola stood.

The horse screamed, and in his terror, he tumbled to the side. Merry cried out as he felt himself falling, but forcing his wits to remain with him, he managed to leap free of the falling horse, and landed roughly upon the grass.

Éowyn! Where was Éowyn? he wondered desperately as he rolled, the world a blur about him. But then a wild crash boomed about him, and a heavy crushing weight tumbled down upon him, pinning him down, and snuffing out the muted light of day.

Was he crushed beneath the oliphaunt? Was he dead? Oh, no, he couldn't be dead. He wouldn't be so uncomfortable if he was. He could smell the acrid scent of cured leather upon him. A piece of one of the platforms of the Easterlings, he realized, had fallen on top of him. And with a determined shove, he pushed the crumpled sheet from off of him, and snatched up his blade, fallen near his hand, not quite pinned beside the dead oliphaunt's back. He struggled to his feet, coughing upon the dust that wafted about him.

As he rounded the edge of the fallen beast's back, a form leapt before him. A Man, though not clad as any Men he had ever seen. The Easterling released a wild cry, high and sharp, unlike an orc's harsh snarl, and swung his wickedly curved blade. Merry ducked, swinging his blade instinctively, slicing into the Man's body.

The Man went down with a cry, and did not move again as an orc came squealing upon Merry. Merry let the swing of his blade carry on into the orc, and the raging creature fell with a scream as well.

For a moment, Merry caught his breath, eyeing his blade at last, sickened at the sight of red blood mingling with black upon it. He glanced at the Man he'd killed, laying still upon the grass. The cloth enshrouding his face had fallen away, and Merry's stomach turned into a knot at the quiet stillness that rested there. His skin was of a browner tone than that of the Men Merry knew. His brows were thick and strong, his nose clean and long, somewhat flatter than the long sharply drawn lines of the Men of Gondor or Rohan. He had no beard, and his jaw was strong and sharply honed, while thick waves of dark hair seeped from beneath the cloth wound about his head. Merry wondered for the briefest moment what his name was, if there was a woman waiting for him, back where he had come from, having left her by persuasion, or by force, Merry did not know. And now, she would never see him again-,

An orc's guttural cry tore Merry from his reverie, and he looked up in time to duck an orc's arching blade. He swung his own sword into an exposed spot upon the orc's side, and the creature fell just as another Easterling came at him, screaming and cursing him in a language Merry did not understand. Gritting his teeth, Merry stabbed his blade home, and the Easterling fell beside the first Man, moaning. He mumbled something softly, reaching out and clapping the dead Man's arm, before he too, shuddered and lay still.

Brothers? Merry mourned. But he did not have time to wonder long before another wild orc lunged near, and scooped him bodily up.

With a cry, Merry slashed his sword across the creature's neck, and the orc's strength faltered. Stabbing his blade home, he brought the orc down, and fell at last, from its iron grasp, and stumbled back, free again.

He turned away from the sight behind him, and staggered forward, seeking through the confusion for Éowyn.

Éowyn? Where was she? Was she still alive? Her body was not lying anywhere nearby, nor was Windfola's. Among a group of riders some distance away, he could see Éowyn's horse, riderless, stuttering nervously among the Rohirrim, having escaped the oliphaunt's crushing weight. Éowyn must surely be alive nearby, as well. But where was she?

Merry could see through the haze of smoke and dust, the white coat of the king's mount, Snowmane some distance away. Merry drew himself up, and gulped hard recalling how he had pledged his own sword to the king's service. And knowing Éowyn, she would seek out her uncle. Tightening his fist about the haft of his blade, he scrambled determinedly forward, through the throbbing confusion about him, toward the king.

The tree at Lalaith's elbow smelt sweet and fragrant, its branches straining upward toward the sky where it grew in its small patch of earth in a corner of the wall. Behind her, in a corner by the steps that mounted to the small veranda where Gandalf and Pippin sat talking quietly together, their blades held ready, a small flowering plant, proudly bearing cheerful red blossoms.

Were this a time of peace, if the shadow of death did not linger so near, perhaps she could pause here a moment, in this place. Legolas, were he with her, Lalaith sighed brokenly, might even pluck one of the sweet red blossoms to tuck playfully in her hair, his eyes adoring her as a smile twitched in the corner of his mouth, his head dipping toward hers as he bent to kiss her-, Lalaith's heart clenched upon itself at the thought as another rolling boom shook the gate.

Ai, Legolas, she thought sadly. We had shared such hopes-,

Lalaith tightened her fist around her bow and drew in a shuddering breath as the gate quivered once again, the screeches and squeals of the orcs beyond the door echoing through the iron and wood of the barred gate.

Beregond stood near her, his helmet lost, grime caking his handsome face, his dark hair falling about him in a mane tangled as her own was, still unbound since her near escaped from the steward's pyre. Beregond held a sharp lance in his hand, the tip tilted toward the gate, his eyes fixed with a burning light upon the wrought iron and wood that shuddered with another blow.

"Bergil," the man muttered, glancing grimly at her as Lalaith's eyes met his. "I know not where the lad is. I should have sent him with his mother-,"

"Pippin saw him briefly," she muttered back, her words cut through with another booming echo. The trolls were pounding at the gate with great hammers, she guessed. "Doubtless, he is on a higher level, my friend."

"Even so, if we cannot hold them here-," his words trailed off, and Beregond said no more.

"I didn't think it would end this way," Pippin's soft voice whispered from behind her, and at his tone, Lalaith's throat grew tight, and she shut her eyes hard as wetness forced itself onto her lashes.

"End?" Gandalf returned, his ever assuring voice soft and consoling. "No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path-, one that we all must take.

"The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it."

"What, Gandalf?" Pippin whispered. "See what?"

"White shores," Gandalf returned softly. "And beyond. A far green country under a swift sunrise."

"Well," Pippin sighed, a smile in his voice. "That isn't so bad."

Lalaith gulped as she drew her eyes open, and managed a small smile even as another boom shook the gate.

"No," Gandalf murmured in return. "It isn't."

Another boom shook the gate, and for a brief moment, the door bowed inward as the faint sound of cracking wood echoed as the boom died away.

A heaviness settled over her heart. It would not be much longer-,

A hideous shriek, unearthly and piercing, sliced through the air above their heads, and several of the men cried out, their eyes lifted to the sky above them, in wild terror, many of them dropping their weapons, some others falling, as if rendered suddenly helpless, to their knees.

A blade of wrenching fire knifed across the back of her shoulder as Lalaith spun toward the source of the rending shriek, her heart leaping into her throat to see the black shadow of the great heavy dragon swooping down upon them from out of the sky, one of the Nazgûl mounted upon its back, a helm of spiked iron where its head would be, though Lalaith could see no face beneath the dark shadows of the helm.

The Witch-king of whom Gandalf had spoken, she realized clenching her teeth at the wrenching pain that seered across her shoulder as if a burning iron were pressing into her very flesh.

Crushing her pain from her mind, Lalaith leapt up with a cry, catching the skyward reaching branches of the tree the grew in the corner of the wall, and with swift grace, vaulted up the tree to the high corner of the wall, where she hopped to her feet again, snatching an arrow from her quiver in the same motion, and drawing it taut to her cheek.

"You," a hissed breathy voice seethed from beneath the helmet of the wraith upon the mottled creature's back, and Lalaith quavered beneath the gaze of the unseen face beneath the iron spiked helm.

Shuddering fiercely from fear and from pain, she released the string, and the arrow struck deep into the creature's shoulder, well off of her mark. The creature shuddered and a screach emitted from its great tooth lined maw. But it did not withdraw, and rather, hovered near before, to Lalaith's revulsion and terror, it reached out a clawed foot toward her, the beat of its naked wings sending a wafting stench down upon her. Against the near maddening pain that seemed to slice deep into the very bone of her back, she drew one of her knives from the quiver, and slashed at the clawed foot, sinking the blade deep into the sinewed flesh. Black blood burbled forth, yet still the undaunted claw came down upon her, its hideous weight knocking her flat to the stone of the wall where her head struck with a jarring crack, the fell beast's claw pinning her beneath its crushing weight.

"Let-, let her go!"

The voice was Pippin's and as she turned her head, she saw him, clambering up the steps of the parapet some distance away, brandishing his own sword bravely, though Lalaith could see terror upon his dear little face. Beregond was with him, and Gandalf as well.

The wraith turned and hissed bitterly at their approach. Wrenching the lines of the beast's reins the wraith turned its mount's head away, and Lalaith's stomach dropped as she felt herself ripped upward from the parapet and into the sky, the beat of the beast's putrid wings whipping through the air that caught at her wild hair as the burning city of Minas Tirith fell behind her.

"Long you have defied your fate, young Vala," the Witch-king seethed above the beat of its mount's naked wings as she twisted, helpless in the beast's clawed foot. The beast swooped low over the battle field below her, a raging mass of horses and Men, and orcs, and great moving beasts with massive snouts, and fierce tusks. Mûmakil, she realized in the back of her desperate thoughts.

"But no longer will you escape death," the wraith hissed.

With that, the claw peeled open, and Lalaith screamed in terror as she fell away into empty space, tumbling down through the air, the raging field of battle rushing up to meet her.


	45. Chapter 44

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 44

April 19, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

The ground spun nearer as Lalaith plummeted downward. The trumpeting bellow of a mûmak entered her ears. She closed her eyes. Legolas, be strong, do not grieve unto death for me-,

A great snap jerked her to a sudden stop and the leather belts of Théodred's quiver wrenched her breath from her lungs as the quiver caught suddenly upon-, something. Something that bowed with her weight, enough to cushion the dreadful speed of her fall, before it sprung back, again, whipping her roughly about before the spinning world came again into focus, and she caught her wild breath, taking in her surroundings.

The full of her weight hung upon the belts of the quiver, stretched taut across her jerkin. But she was still alive, swinging in the air, ragged and breathless, and confused that she was not crushed upon the ground as she struggled to understand how she had been jerked to a stop, hanging in mid-air as it seemed, that she would still be moving in time to the rhythmic boom of thundering feet, as if she were upon the back of a great horse.

Shaking her dazed head, she twisted herself about, gaping back at the startled eyes, faces shrouded behind thick wrappings of cloth that watched her from over the taut leather balustrade of a moving tower mounted upon the back of a-, she gaped. A Mûmak! Théodred's quiver, she realized, as she twisted helplessly about, her feet dangling over empty air, had caught upon a great out-thrust beam of the vast fortress, braced across the beast's back, guiding trains trailing from them toward the highest pinnacle of the moving tower. And she was dangling like a tiny doll, above the raging mûmak's head.

The Man nearest to her, standing upon a platform fastened across the mûmak's neck, guiding the beast with thick cords pierced through its vast, flapping ears, shouted at her. His head was shorn bare, his face a mass of fearsome tattoos, his eyes sparking with an angry light. His voice, though she understood not his words, was harsh and bitter, and filled with venom. He gestured toward the sky, then away toward the Witch King upon his winged mount that had swooped away, and was skimming low over the battlefield like a hawk near to pouncing upon its prey.

The mûmak, akin to its master in temperament it seemed, bellowed in rage, tossing its head about violently to rid itself of her unwanted weight, and swung its great snout up as if it meant to seize her about the legs. But Lalaith set her jaw, unwilling to remain fearful, helpless to its angry fury. Gathering her strength swiftly, she reached up, and catching the ragged end of the great out-thrusting shaft, flipped her legs up and over the beam just as the beast's snout swiped up at her. The motion loosened her snagged quiver as wrenched herself up over the protruding shaft, her feet landing cat like upon the swaying beam, her knees bent to take the jolting stamp of the mûmak. Several of the Easterlings in the saddled tower, shouted at her, enraged, fuming that she did not fall, and snatched for arrows. Lalaith snatched back for her own arrows, only to find her quiver empty of all but a single knife, her arrows lost in her fall, and her other knife embedding in the clawed foot of the Witch-king's mount. Gripping the wave of panic that rose in her, she snatched the haft of her one remaining knife as she dropped her bow back into its place and pounced into the huge swaying tower, swinging her blade with a vengeance into first man who came at her with a sharpened javelin, screeching, cursing her in his unknown tongue.

Lalaith's knife flashed across this man's neck, and he buckled and fell at her feet. The shroud enwrapping his face fell away as he tumbled there, and his face came into view. He was a Man of middle years, his face raggedly pocked. Gnarled and twisted it was with wild rage, his teeth sparse and crooked in a frozen, sneering mouth. Yet Lalaith paused, shuddering at the sight as she glanced now at her knife, bloodied, though not with the black blood of orcs, but red.

One of the remaining Men, seeing her brief hesitation lunged at her with a shout, the point of his spear leveled at her heart. Stumbling back, she raised her blade to block his cruel blow, but she was too late. Lalaith drew in a sudden gasp as the point of the javelin sliced through the leather of her jerkin, and the cloth of her tunic.

But it did not pierce her flesh.

The circled medallion Galadriel had given her for Legolas to hold against her heart to await their wedding day, pressed into the flesh between her breasts, and dug uncomfortably into her skin beneath the point of the sharpened spear. The Man's merciless strength shoved her backward, and she tumbled over the edge of the leather balustrade with a sharp cry, a torn portion trailing behind her, as the Man's cruel laughter echoed in her ears, the Easterling certain that he had slain her.

But as she fell, she snatched desperately at the torn fragment of leather that had torn away with her, swinging with a jarring thump beneath the over hanging saddle, and into the mûmak's side. The shredded leather tore away then and was whipped away in the wind, but not before Lalaith had snatched wildly onto a short bit of trailing rope, ending her fall.

The motion of the raging beast dashed her about, hanging as she was against its side between a pair of strapping ropes lashed across its belly. Yet she kept her wits about her, and her grip tight upon her one remaining blade. Spinning it, so that the blade was h, she plunged it hard to the hilt in the mûmak's side, hoping it would halt the mad beast's wild charge. But its skin was too thick even to draw blood, her blade as harmless as a bee's sting.

The enraged beast bellowed in protest at this small hurt, swiping back again at her with its massive snout. And with a swift gasp, Lalaith pushed away with her legs, avoiding the flailing grey snout of the beast, though the mûmak's whipping snout dislodged her knife, and she watched helplessly as it plummeted, spinning blade over haft, gleaming down toward the whirring ground below where it at last disappeared.

A cry erupted from above her, and as she glanced up, several faces swathed in cloth appeared over the edge of the overhanging saddle, shouting in rage. The Easterlings, clearly infuriated that she yet lived, brandished their bows as they snatched for arrows taking aim at her from their awkward position, above and behind her, their arrows slitting the air about her as they struck the side of their mount .

The mûmak bellowed at this, flinging its head about furiously, and as the Easterlings shouted among themselves for a moment, they at last withdrew.

Lalaith shuddered, drawing in a tentative breath of relief, and there she hung, weaponless, helpless to do more than wait. Wait for the death of the raging angry beast, or her own death-, and she shuddered where she hung precariously, uncertain which would come first.

...

"Rally to me! To me!"

The voice of Rohan's king sounded strong and undaunted above the chaos of battle as Merry struggled through the dust and noise toward Théoden, his sword clutched hard in his fist. The young Hobbit could see the gleam of Snowmane's coat through the crush of horses clustered about the king.

Where was Éowyn? Merry wondered desperately as he lifted his eyes at an orc's wild shriek, darting its swinging blade as it lunged after him, thinking the small Hobbit easy prey. It's cruel, curved blade sliced harmlessly into the ground, and Merry's own blade found its mark, the orc falling with a grunt of surprise before it lay still. Surely she was not dead, his mind pled silently as he ran on foot, stumbling in his haste, to get to the king.

But his blood froze in his veins as a wretched shriek rent the air. Merry cried aloud at the sound, his knees buckling, for he knew it well. The shriek of a Nazgûl. Shooting his eyes about, he saw it then, the great winged monster swooping near, scattering horses who ran in shrieking fear away from the king's side, nearly crushing Merry in their haste to escape, their riders helpless to master them.

Merry darted here and there as horses scattered about him, thinking only of reaching the king, of finding Éowyn. One horse, trampling near, veered beside Merry, its shoulder careening into the Hobbit as it darted past, sending him spinning into the ground.

Rolling to a stop, Merry shoved himself once again to his feet. His collision with the horse had left him bruised and dizzy. And his own sword had flown, spinning off somewhere. But he hardly noticed it as he turned about, his heart stopping in his chest to see the winged beast pounced upon Snowmane, as a hawk upon a mouse. Its jaws clamped upon the horse as its long neck swung about, flinging both horse and rider helplessly across the grass, tumbling wildly until with a rough thud, Snowmane's bloodied carcass thumped to a halt.

"My king!" Merry shrieked as snatched up a fallen orc's blade that lay near him as he struggled to scramble onward, limping about a mound of dead men and horses even as the wicked beast crept near the king, trapped beneath the body of his fallen mount.

"Feast on his flesh," hissed a cold, cruel voice from the empty shadows beneath the spiked iron helm.

"No!" Merry cried, though his voice was small in the din of battle.

Despairing, Merry stumbled on brandishing the heavy weapon nearly as large as himself, tripping and falling amongst the bodies, rising again, thinking only of standing between the foul beast and the king, defending his lord with the large awkward blade until the life was gone from him. But he was not near enough, and the king would be torn and devoured before he reached him.

But Merry's feet stopped short, for another had come before him in his place, and he caught a sharp breath in his lungs.

Éowyn!

"I will kill you if you touch him," she grated, and Merry's throat tightened seeing here there before the Lord of the Nazgûl, fair and fearless, and slender as a shining blade. On over the mounds of bodies he stumbled, renewing his efforts to reach her side.

"Do not come between the Nazgûl and his prey," the wraith hissed.

With a roar, the wraith's winged mount, its rowed teeth dripping with saliva, thrust out its long neck toward the maiden, but Éowyn lunged deftly to the side as it came, raising her sword as she did, and crying out in anger and fury as she brought her blade down upon the beast's neck, once, then twice, the spine split with a crack, and the head severed clean from the body flipped away as the body quivered, flailing, and fell.

Merry paused briefly gasping as Éowyn scrambled to snatch up a fallen wooden shield. But his heart grew cold and fearful again as the black robed figure rose like an angry cloud from beside the body of his dead mount. The Nazgûl turned his eyes upon the maiden as a breath of hissing rage seethed from the emptiness behind his helmet, brandishing in his right gauntleted hand, a long sword, and in the other, a heavy rod of knobbed iron, a wickedly spiked ball hanging from it by a thick chain.

Merry gasped at the sight of it, and renewed his struggle to reach her. He scrambled over a fallen horse's bloodied saddle, helpless as he tumbled over the dead to reach the maiden's side, watching, though he was fearful to, as the iron spikes smacked into the ground, sending up a smattering of earth. Éowyn had leapt to the side in time.

But the Nazgûl was twirling the mace about again, swinging it toward her head! Éowyn ducked away, the dark wraith shrieking in rage as he missed his intended target. Down the mace came in a swift arc, and once again Éowyn jumped away as it pounded into the ground. Several more swings she ducked and dodged, and Merry's heart began to take strength as he leaped and scrambled over the last of the fallen bodies, sure he would reach her side in time to aide her. But then it happened. The mace, swung about as Éowyn rose from ducking its deadly spikes, striking with a bone shattering crack into her shield, splintering the wood that flew in shards in all directions, and sending the maiden falling back against Snowmane's bloodied side.

"No, no!" Merry shrieked wildly as he tripped over a fallen Man's arm and fell upon his chest in the cleared ground beside the wraith's dead mount.

In the din of war, the Nazgûl did not even turn toward the Hobbit as he drew near toward the gasping maiden, hovering over her like a dark cloud. And setting his teeth hard, Merry found his feet and scrambled forward around the yet twitching wings of the vile beast the wraith had ridden upon. As he drew near, his eyes fell upon a spot of shining white upon one of the beast's twitching claws, to see a knife protruding from the naked mottled flesh. It looked Elven made and seemed vaguely familiar, but Merry in his rush could not place how he knew, thinking only that it suited him better than the bulky blade he carried. Dropping the orcish weapon with a heavy thump, he snatched the white blade free of the beast's crumpled claw. And though he knew well that the Nazgûl might kill them both, at the least, Éowyn would not die alone.

...

Legolas' heart grew chill in his chest as the silent ships drew into to the port of Osgiliath. For beyond the ragged broken city upon the river, he could see the dust cloud of battle, great raging mûmakil stomping over the trampled field as distant horsemen galloped about their legs, shooting arrows up into their thick hides.

Lalaith, Lalaith, his heart murmured with every beat as his eyes rose up the smoking levels of the city. I must reach her, find her-, Great Valar, let her be safe!

Gimli's comforting hand found the Elf's arm as if the Dwarf could sense his thoughts. And glancing down, he caught the terse bearded grin as the Dwarf glanced up at him.

"We'll find `er lad," Gimli muttered from beside him, and gave his arm a final pat.

"Indeed we will," Aragorn murmured from nearby, offering the Elf and Dwarf a brief smile before glancing out over the ship's railing at the horde of orcs gathering near the edge of the river. "She has Gandalf and Pippin. And knowing her, Lalaith has doubtless has gained the loyalty of many others since her coming to Minas Tirith-,"

"Late as usual, pirate scum!" a sharp voice snapped from among the mass of orcs as a hard faced figure drew near, its helmet brandishing the decaying skull of a Man, traces of straw colored hair still clinging to the bleached scalp. Legolas drew in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening beneath his skin at the sight of it. "There's knife-work here, needs doing!"

The ship scraped the docks and came to a halt.

"Come on, you sea rats! Get off your ships!"

At these words, Aragorn drew in a fierce breath, a gleam of determination hardening in his eyes as with a cry, he leaped over the railing, and landed deftly upon the stones bordering the river.

Following the Man's lead, Legolas, with Gimli beside him, vaulted the ship's railing, Gimli landing heavily, stumbling as he did, but only slightly while beside him, Legolas landed lightly upon his toes, his bow at the ready as he studied the snarling faces of the orcs, startled at first, though seething grins quickly overcame their faces at the sight of the three, seemingly alone.

"There's plenty for the both of us," Gimli grumbled, brandishing his axe as Legolas' hand darted for an arrow, and he allowed himself a brief smile, recalling their counting game. "May the best Dwarf win!"

At these words, a soft murmur, as of a whispering wind suddenly picking up, stirred behind him. Legolas did not need to glance back, knowing already what it was, for the Dead were fulfilling their oath now, and he broke into a run, drawing his string back to his cheek, releasing it into the horde as the swift warm wind drew up from the several ships behind him, and passed through him, the grey green shadowed forms of the Dead swiftly sweeping over the orcs like a wave, flattening them as hailstones upon a field of high grass. On the wispy forms of the Dead surged, spilling through the broken city. And Legolas, with Gimli and Aragorn beside him, was only the more eager to follow behind at a hard run, seeking the battle field, the burning, wounded city beyond, and Lalaith. His heart leapt at the thought of her. His beloved, who held his heart. He would find her surely. She would be safe, unscathed. And he would draw her to him, filling at last, the emptiness of his aching arms. And the thought gave courage to his heart, and wings to his feet.

...

"You fool," the wraith hissed, as Merry scrambled nearer. The dark cloaked Nazgûl grasped Éowyn by the neck, lifting her up by her throat. "No man can kill me. Die now."

Drawing in a hard breath, and battling the crippling chill that seemed to crackle through his flesh to his very bones, Merry lifted the blade he had found, and as he lunged the last distance toward the wraith, he stabbed it, with all the force of his strength, deep into the sinew in the back of the Nazgûl's knee.

A wretched pain that seemed to burn and freeze him all in the same moment, shot up the blade of the knife, and into his hand, and Merry cried out, startled in fear and pain as he tumbled back upon the grass, clutching his shuddering wrist. Though even as he did, Éowyn, released from the wraith's hold by Merry's blow, rose to her feet, gasping as Merry lifted his fogged and weary head, looking on.

And with her sword in hand, lifted her arm, and peeled off her helmet. Her hair, long and golden shone in the light of the morning, her face fair and beautiful as any Elf maiden's.

"I am no man," she breathed. And with a cry, she drove her sword into the emptiness between crown and mantle, twisting the sword in the quavering void before she released the hilt, the sword shooting out onto the ground as if the Nazgûl had vomited it out.

Éowyn, weakened and as startled as Merry had been, fell, suddenly helpless to her knees. But her foe, their foe, moved not to rise as the mantle and hauberk crumpled onto nothing before Merry's eyes, crumbling into an empty upon the ground, torn and tumbled. And as Merry watched, the last of his strength ebbing, a chill crackling along his limbs, a cry lifted up into the air from the torn and crumpled mass like a thin mist that died in the air, and faded into nothingness.

...

The battle raged around him, the grass about him covered with the bodies of the slain, and the moaning wounded as Legolas, his mind focused hard upon his task, drew arrow after arrow, firing them into the raging orcs that pounced at him.

"Thirty," he counted aloud as he drew an arrow and holding it within his fist, ducked the swinging blade of a squealing orc that leaped at him before he drove the shaft into the throat of the creature, black blood gurgling in its throat as fell limp beneath his feet.

"Thirty one!" he cried as he drew the blackened dripping arrow to his cheek, and let fly into another raging orc that scampered near to Gimli, its blade swinging toward the Dwarf's back.

Gimli spun as the orc squealed and fell dead, its blade fallen harmlessly away, his startled eye's meeting Legolas'.

"I'm on thirty four!" the Dwarf shouted merrily as his thanks.

"Thirty three!" Legolas shouted back, grinning. "For Aragorn was the one who struck the first blow on that scarred orc chieftain you slew but moments ago!"

"Paugh! Thirty five!" Gimli cried back, laughing as he cut down yet another snarling orc. "Aragorn merely cut the orc's arm off! I struck the death blow!"

"Thirty four and a half, then!" Legolas conceded with a laugh, turning away and drawing yet another arrow to his cheek as an orc growling in fury, stumbled near to a young bearded warrior of Rohan. The orc's blade was raised as the warrior, one of his legs bent at an unnatural angle beneath him, lifted his hands in fear to ward off the blow.

"Thirty two!" Legolas cried as his arrow cut the orc down, its blade falling harmless, from its hands.

"Legolas" Aragorn's voice had grown suddenly into a hoarse cry, fraught with wild alarm.

He spun at the ranger's ragged words, his eyes, in a swift instant, taking in the raging mûmak stampeding toward him. But its thundering feet, rumbling near to crush him, he paid no heed to. Instead, his startled eyes took in the small slender figure which had drawn Aragorn's sudden anxiety, clinging desperately to the side of the raging beast, hanging helpless, and weaponless he could see, but for her bow in her quiver over its thundering feet.

Her hair was unbound and hanging disheveled about her slender shoulders, her elven cloak and her garb rumpled and caked in dust and ash. But at that moment, she was more beautiful than he ever remembered seeing her.

Sudden longing, lanced through with a fiery blaze of fierce protective rage swelled within him. And heedless of his own danger, his fist tightened about the shaft of his bow, and he broke into a hard sprint, straight for the bellowing mûmak, her name a wild cry from his throat, though at the uttering of it, tasted sweet upon his lips.

"Lalaith!"

The mûmak's head was lowered, its great spiked tusks swooping near. But Legolas deftly caught the beast's great tusk before the spikes could driving into his body, letting the momentum of the beast's swinging head carry him up, avoiding the wicked spikes as he whipped up, and swung over the branching tusk to land in a crouch upon the upper edge of the beast's great curving tooth where the wicked spikes did not protrude.

Roaring its displeasure at him, the mûmak swatted its great snake of a snout across its tusk, and Legolas flinched as the grey flopping flesh, slammed across the massive tooth, barely missing him. Down the mûmak swung its head, and Legolas, grasping at one of the rough ropes twined about its tusk, swung from the huge curving tooth, into empty air for a brief heart stopping instant, before he landed, jarring roughly upon the spike entwined forefoot of the beast as he caught desperately at the rough ropes lashed about the mûmak's thick ankle.

Legolas kept his hold upon the thick, abrasive ropes, his determination to reach Lalaith burning like a raging fire within him as he caught his breath, judged the timing of the beast's surging legs, then with a might thrust, he leapt again across the chasm of air between the beast's fore and hind legs, catching at the arrows of the Rohirrim that protruded from the mûmak's wrinkled grey flesh of its hind knee.

From the mûmak's throat, another raging roar bellowed out, as its tail whipped out, swiping at him. The wire hard tuft at the tip of its tail snapped viciously across his arm in a blistering sting, though Legolas heeded the pain not at all as he scrambled up the beast's wrinkled hide, pulling his weight up on the arrows buried deep in the tough flesh as the mûmak's tail continued to whip about him.

His arms straining as if the very muscle burned, he hoisted himself at last, to the sloping edge of the mûmak's broad back, rocking madly back and forth, his legs braced apart beside the jutting ridge of the mûmak's spine, his knees bent to balance himself against the swaying of the raging beast.

Faces swathed in dark cloth glared at him over the railing of rope and leather strapped across the mûmak's rocking back, their eyes burning with rage. Legolas set his jaw hard as the Easterlings cursed in their tongue, snatching for arrows, but he was swifter.

"Thirty three!" he gasped to himself as the arrow he had snatched, and drawn to his cheek in the same fluid motion, found its target in the chest of a Man who was drawing the string of his arrow back. The Easterling screamed, his arrow went wild zipping harmlessly past Legolas' head, and the Man toppled back, falling over a tear in the leather balustrade, above the spot where Lalaith hung, disappearing swiftly beneath the mûmak's trampling feet. "Thirty four, thirty five!"

Two more fell with wild wails down toward the ground below.

With a cry filled with rage, another Easterling dared to leaped over the side of the mounted tower, brandishing a spear at Legolas' heart. But Legolas' arrow was struck through his heart ere his feet hit the mûmak's back. Lifeless, the Man rolled off the beast's side, and fell away without a groan.

Another Man vaulted over the edge of the saddled tower and onto the mûmak's back with a murderous shriek, a thick spear bearing a razored blade arcing down toward Legolas' head.

Brandishing his bow in both hands, he swung it like a staff, cracking the curved shaft across the head of the spear, and deflecting the murderous blow away from himself, sending it down into the thick hide of the mûmak. With his jaw set hard, Legolas snatched the imbedded spear, and wrenched it, flinging it away, and the Easterling, still clutching the shaft, fell with a shriek over the haunches of the trampling beast, and into the surging cloud of grey and green, the Dead who raced across the ground below, like a mist driven by a swift wind.

One more Easterling with a wild cry leapt at him, but Legolas no longer wished to deal with them. Enough time had been wasted, and he wished for nothing else but to reach Lalaith! He simply dodged the Man, who, missing his mark, fell wildly over the rump of the beast, and swiftly disappeared. Leaping from the mûmak's back, Legolas snatched a stray rope that hung loose from the mounted tower, and swung down in a dizzy drop toward Lalaith where she hung, visibly wearied.

"Lalaith!" he cried into the wind as he collided with the mûmak's tromping foreleg, before he caught himself beneath it, and pushed himself back, swinging against the mûmak's side, before he came to a stop where she hung, and with his free arm, caught her about the waist.

He could have wept from the feel of her, soft and slender in his one free arm. Her hair was damp and dirty, and the scent of ash lingered about her, but Legolas cared not at all as he clutched her more tightly, and pressed a hurried kiss to her brow caked in sweat and dust. Doubtless, she had been through far more than he knew.

"Legolas!" she choked wearily, releasing the stray rope she had been clinging to, turning in his embrace, and flinging her own arms about his shoulders.

"Forgive me beloved," he gasped. "Hold on a moment longer-,"

And with that, he drew his arm from about her waist, and as her slender weight hung about his shoulders, he snatched one of his knives from his quiver and in the same motion, slashed it through the belted ropes binding the saddled tower beneath the mûmak's forelegs. The ropes severed cleanly, flipping sharply upward, like a bow's string suddenly snapped. The weight of the tower began to sway, straining the other belt across the mûmak's belly before the ropes twined through tore away with a loud ripping echo.

Legolas clapped his knife back into his quiver, then snatched her again about the waist as the tower began to tilt, and as the remaining Easterlings above them began to cry out in dread, the tower slowly began to slide off the beast's back. The two Elves, Legolas, clutching Lalaith tightly to him with one arm, and the trailing rope in the other, scampered gradually up the mûmak's surging side until with an echoing shudder, the tower of wood and leather crashed to the ground and crumpled, the cries of the Easterlings drowned in a surging tide of the Dead that swarmed over the fallen mass in a misty stream.

Legolas caught a swift breath, his hands both tightening about Lalaith's waist where they stood perched upon the bare back of the mûmak. How he wished, after so many days of separation, that he might take her in his arms, and greet her as he so often had in his dreams. But the anger of the mûmak, with the burden of the tower gone, was growing only fiercer. The beast would, in its rage, fling them from its back soon, or plunge headlong into the river, casting them in with it in its madness. Setting his jaw determinedly, Legolas released her hand, and reaching back, snatched three shafts from his quiver, gesturing to her to follow him and the two dashed up the quivering ridge of the beast's neck.

Drawing the string once again to his cheek, he felt a remote twinge of regret. The mûmak itself had indeed done no willful wrong, knowing nothing more than that it must obey the will of its masters. But now, as it shook its head, bellowing it anger and rage, Legolas knew he had no choice.

He released the string with a snap, and the arrows struck true, buried to the fletchings in the mûmak's skull.

The beast's legs began to buckle as a bellowing rumble shuddered from its throat. Legolas reached back and snatched Lalaith's hand. Together, the two Elves leapt over the mûmak's brow as it crumpled to the earth, their boots catching the ridge of its long snout, and slid down the long ridged flesh, the wrinkled flesh of the beast's snout thumpling beneath their boots. Until with a final leap, the two Elves vaulted from the end of the mûmak's crumpling snout to land deftly upon solid ground as the beast tumbled on its side, and lay still.

Lalaith drew in a deep shuddering breath, her heart thundering within her, struggling to believe after the events of the past several minutes, that she would find herself safe, upon the firm earth, with Legolas, of all the men of Arda, beside her, his hand in her own.

Nearby, as if having waited in that very spot for their descent from the mûmak, Gimli stood, glancing over the dead mûmak behind the two Elves as if he were entirely unimpressed.

"That still only counts as one!" the Dwarf barked tersely by way of greeting, though she could see the relief sparking in Gimli's eyes even as he struggled to hide it. Then glancing up at Legolas with a stern look, he crowed, "If not, only a half, since she was helping you!" But he said this even as he chuckled, and slapped Lalaith amiably on the arm.

Aragorn was a space beyond Gimli's shoulder, a bright sword flashing as he cut down a lone, snarling orc.

The fume of darkness above them was swiftly dispersing as one by one, their foes squealed and fell and lay still upon the crushed grass, and the blade and hilt of Aragorn's sword gleamed in the new light of morning.

Lalaith blinked, her eyes catching the shining hilt. Narsil?

Yet she did not have long to wonder, for a warbling howl interrupted them, and a small pack of ragged, wild eyed orcs, all the more determined and desperate now that they were being slain and driven, came scuttling near the small group. Legolas and Gimli turned swiftly, and leapt to meet them with Aragorn, the three of them forming protective phalanx about Lalaith, sheltering her where she stood weaponless between them and the bulky mass of the dead mûmak.

Aragorn swung his shining blade, deflecting the short, serrated blade of an orc. Yet another orc scampered up behind the ranger, a bitter gleam in its eyes as it raised a curved scimitar to bring it down into the Man's cloaked back.

With a wild cry, Lalaith threw herself forward, snatching up a fallen orc's blade before the creature could perform its murderous act. The weapon was bulky and unfamiliar, but she brandished it with determination, and swung it with all her strength. The iron blade slashed across the chest of the orc, and the raised scimitar dropped from its hand just as Aragorn spun, breathless, blinking, his eyes finding hers across the space between them as he realized what she had done.

"Lalaith!" he cried, casting her his well loved easy grin. "It is good to have you back!"

But his smile did not last long before he turned away again as an orc came lumbering near, its gleaming eyes fixed upon the maiden, a great knobby cudgel raised to crush her head. The point of his shining sword slashing across the creature's midsection, even as one of Legolas' arrows caught the creature in its side, and Gimli's thick battle axe caught it in the back, and it fell to the earth as he cursed it beneath his breath.

"Dare to harm our Lalaith? Wretched creature!" Gimli mumbled before he turned away again, taking his axe to yet another orc.

Legolas shot a hurried grin toward her at this, before he spun away again, and caught another arrow from his quiver. And without nocking it to bowstring, he shoved it home in a snarling orc's throat before he drew it to his cheek, and let it fly into the chest of one of the few remaining foes about them.

"Indeed! It is good to have you back!" she cried teasingly toward Aragorn in return as she joined him at his side, blocking the raised blade of a red eyed orc with the heavy weapon, and forcing the cruel blade into the ground, before Aragorn's blade plunged into the creature's bulbous abdomen, and pinned it, twitching, to the crushed and bloodied earth. For a brief instant, she caught sight of the familiar pommel before Aragorn jerked it free of the twitching creature's carcass. Narsil indeed it was, reforged. And her heart cried joyfully as her smiling eyes met his. Aragorn smiled as if he sensed her bright thoughts before she turned once again to an orc thumping near, hissing menacingly.

Ducking its swinging blade, she shoved the heavy blade beneath its armor, slicing through flesh, and it screeched, and fell to the earth to lie, twitching and dead.

"Come on, then. Come on!" Gimli crowed from nearby as his swinging axe cracked and shattered orc armor to his right and left. The orcs were growing sparse, she noted as she ducked the blade of a screeching goblin, and slashed the blade in her left hand up into the beast's armpit before Gimli pounced eagerly near, and his axe caught the orc in the side, bringing it down.

"Forty two!" the Dwarf cried obstinately, and shot a flippant grin toward Legolas before he glance about, his black smeared axe at the ready, awaiting more foes to come at them, but there were none.

"Forty one and a half," Lalaith muttered softly, to which Gimli cast her a soft growl though it faded into a soft chuckle he could not hide as the Elf maid and Dwarf traded teasing grins.

Aragorn had just wrenched the neck of their last foe, the sound of crunching bone carrying easily in the sudden quiet, and now, the four of them stood, near to one another, unchallenged and unscathed, upon the trampled grass.

Lalaith let herself grow still, and cast the heavy weapon away. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she lowered her head as the rage of battle slowly ebbed from her veins.

She heard the stirring of grass beneath booted feet. And then she felt his fingertips, light as a bird's feather, slide warm over her own. With a sigh, she lifted her head and turned to find Legolas hovering over her, studying her eyes with a concerned expression, the timid endearing smile that teased the corners of his lips. She swallowed softly at the sight of him, unsure if she should laugh or cry.

"I have been awaiting you," she finally said at last, her voice soft beneath the fading din of war that echoed away across the grass.

"And I have been coming as swiftly as I might," he returned, his own voice low and warm, though it quavered distantly with his own emotion.

"Forgive me, for my unsightliness," she muttered softly before she ducked her head, suddenly painfully aware of her gnarled hair, and ash caked garb. "I have been through much. To tell you of it, would fill volumes." She sighed, glancing away from him at the tide of the Dead that washed about the quieting battlefield. "And it would seem that you have much to tell me, as well."

Legolas merely smiled as he lifted a hand, and touched her cheek, turning her face to his own, and smiling tenderly as if he gazed upon a fair vision. "We shall not leave one another again," he vowed, his voice solemn, though his eyes smiled. "We shall have all the time we wish for."

Lalaith swallowed and ducked her head. "Yet I had wished to be beautiful for you-,"

"You are beautiful Lalaith nin," Legolas returned without hesitation, his voice softly breathless and Lalaith lifted her eyes, her breath catching in her lungs at the smouldering flame that lit the depths of his warm blue eyes.

Across the grass, some distance away Gimli shuffled about, sniffing and grunting, ignorant of the Elves' softened exchange of words as he nudged an orc's carcass with the thick toe of his boot. Aragorn stood near, the Man's eyes turned down, a soft grin etched across his bearded lips, though Gimli could not tell what humored the man.

"Forty two, forty two," Gimli muttered to himself, though he knew Aragorn could hear, for the Ranger's eyes turned upon him with a humored inquisitive look. "I wonder how many the Elf got? Legolas!" he cried suddenly, only to be silenced by Aragorn's hand upon his arm.

"Eh? Wha-?" he wondered, before turning to glance in the direction Aragorn nodded. But then he smiled, flushing beneath the thick of his beard and he and Aragorn both turned away, pretending they had not seen the two Elves softly weeping and laughing at once between kisses that were numerous and tenderly sweet, entwined in each other's arms as if nothing would ever separate them again for all the ages of the world.


	46. Chapter 45

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 45

May 8, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Lalaith stood glancing about herself upon the wide field of the dead, her hand sheltered within Legolas' gentle grip as the two Elves stood a short distance behind Gimli, watching the misty host of the Dead sweeping near toward Aragorn, the air about them thick with a hushed quiet.

"Lalaith!"

The small voice, weary but pleased, seemed loud in the quiet air.

She and Legolas both turned at Pippin's dear voice to see him, with Gandalf before him, drawing near.

Pippin's eyes were bright with relief as Gandalf offered his own quiet smile toward the maiden as the king of the Dead wafted forward, and stood before Aragorn.

"Release us," he hissed in a hissing whisper, as a voice spoken from the depths of a memory.

"Bad idea," Gimli grumbled from behind Aragorn. "Very handy in a tight spot these lads, despite the fact they're dead."

Beside her, Legolas smirked slightly at these words, and his hand tightened gently about her own as he glanced at her, a humored look in his eyes. Lalaith returned his brief smirk.

"You gave us your word!" the ghostly man seethed.

"I hold your oath fulfilled," he returned, his voice firm though mild, and bearing within it, a nobility that Lalaith's heart grew warm to hear.

"Go," he continued as an expression of grateful relief drew across the faint, transparent features of the ghostly king, and his followers. "Be at peace."

And to this, the king of the Dead smiled wearily, and withdrew a pace as the lines of his men wavered and as upon a sudden breeze, their forms faded, and flitted away, like strains of dust into the sky.

Aragorn turned at this, and acknowledged Gandalf's short bow with a nod of his head.

Lalaith smiled, sensing the weight of importance at what had happened. For none but the king of Gondor, could have freed them at last, the Oathbreakers, their oath at last fulfilled.

Not many paces away, a sound of soft sobbing entered Lalaith's ears, and she turned, to study the young man of Rohan, his armor dusty and slashed with black blood as he knelt at the side of a man of older years, his father, most likely, for their features were similar. The man's eyes were closed, no movement lifted his chest.

The younger man's chin bore a soft brush of scruff, the first beginnings of a beard. His eyes were red from crying as he bent over the dead man. "Papa, papa," he wept softly.

Beyond the young man, she could see Éomer, the nephew of Théoden the king of Rohan, striding about among his men, their faces grim, written with grief. Every now and again, a man would drop to his knees beside a body he recognized, weeping quietly as the young man did, near her.

"So many noble Men, Legolas," she sighed, and his hand silently tightened about her own as she gazed about the battlefield. "The fathers, and brothers and lovers of the maidens I befriended in Rohan." She shuddered. "So many of them-,"

"Lalaith!" Pippin's voice called, and she glanced toward the sound, fear rising in her heart at the urgency in the Hobbit's tone.

With Legolas at her side, she hurried across the corpse strewn field to where Pippin stood, bending over a small crumpled cloak. Behind her, Legolas' hands cupped her shoulders and tightened. Pippin lifted the small cloak, the leaf shaped brooch still pinned to the cloth.

"Merry!" she gasped softly.

"We will search him out," Legolas said, his voice a low breath, though filled with feeling. "We will find him together, Pippin. Have no fear."

At this, a small smile began tentatively to smooth the worried lines from his mouth until a wretched scream of wild misery rent the heavy silence that lingered over the battle field, shredding the air about them with its wild despair.

"No!"

And all their eyes shot across the field to see Éomer drop his sword and helmet, lunging and leaping over fallen bodies toward the grass, near the crumpled reeking mound that was the Witch King's slain mount. Éomer's face was filled with a wild, raging grief as he ran, like a wild mindless thing toward the fallen warrior he knew.

Lalaith caught a flash of a white horse's coat. Snowmane, the king's horse, lay dead upon the grass near the putrid corpse of the Witch King's mount as warriors heaved his body off his fallen rider and drew Théoden's silent form from beneath the horse's body.

Lalaith's hand flew to her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes as she recalled the king's gentle ways, and his fatherly kindness. But his uncle's body was not where Éomer fell to his knees. But rather, beside the form of a warrior small and slender, whom Lalaith recognized suddenly, the fair face, the golden hair. Éowyn! Not the fair, fearless maiden of Rohan! Lalaith's heart dropped into a void of pain, recalling the maiden's gentle, yet proud ways, the nobility and kindness in her eyes-,

"Ai, Elbereth!" she cried as she started tentatively forward. "My Lord, Éomer?"

"No!" Éomer wept wildly, his wild unseeing glance, and his ragged words pushing Lalaith back as he clutched his sister's motionless form against him as if he thought Lalaith might try to harm Éowyn as he rocked pathetically back and forth with her upon the grass. "Éowyn!" he sobbed fiercely, turning his face down toward his sisters. "How came you to be here? What madness or devilry is this? Death take us all!"

Lalaith turned her eyes sadly from Éomer's wild weeping, seeing through her own tears the eyes of Aragorn, across the space and Gandalf as well, their eyes deep with grief before the thump of horses' hooves and the clatter of men's armor as several came running near drew her gaze toward the open city gate.

A man, fair haired and beardless with a cloak of deep blue about his shoulders drew near at the head of a column of Men of Minas Tirith, some mounted, some upon foot, carrying empty stretchers, sheets of leather bound between wooden braces, to bear back the wounded of the Rohirrim. Lalaith recognized Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth. The Man beside whom she had stood upon the wall when Faramir had ridden off on the disastrous mission toward Osgiliath. He had told her of his daughter, Lothiriel, the maid who loved horses.

Imrahil, seeing Éomer's fearsome grief, leapt to the ground, drawing nearer than Éomer had allowed Lalaith, a look of concern upon his youthful features.

"A woman-," the man muttered, his eyes perplexed as he drew tentatively to the grieving man where Éomer knelt, and dropped to one knee in humble reverence. "Have even the women of the Rohirrim come to war at our need?"

"Nay," Éomer returned, looking upon the man with wild pleading upon his face. Éomer's voice was ragged and broken. "Only one. This is the Lady Éowyn, my sister. We knew naught of her riding until this moment!"

The man's brow furrowed as he looked upon the maiden, and leaned near, touching her hand. "So would my daughter Lothiriel have come, had I allowed her, beautiful as your brave sister, and as fearless-,"

Éomer shuddered, shaking his head. "If your daughter is fair as her name, I would stand before all the host of Mordor, to keep them from her, my lord. Brave though she might be, she would have no need to fight them, while I lived."

"Lord of Rohan!" Imrahil breathed, starting back as he drew his hand back from Éowyn's. "Your sister is not dead! Hurt to the death, maybe, but I deem that she yet lives."

Lalaith's heart leapt into her throat at this, as Imrahil bent nearer, putting two fingers to the maiden's throat, catching a swift breath as he did.

"Indeed!" he cried. "See, my young Lord!" At this, Imrahil held the bright burnished vambrace upon his arm near to Éowyn's lips, and a little mist brushed across it.

Éomer gasped sharply at this. "Éowyn!" he choked.

"Haste now is needed!" Imrahil insisted. "She must be taken swiftly to the healers in the city!"

And at this, Éomer fairly exploded to his feet, bearing his sister up with him.

"Take my horse, my young Lord," Imrahil ordered. "And take care of her left arm, it is broken, it seems. Go!"

"A blessing upon you, my friend. Upon your daughter, and all your kin. Stranger before today, though well met in this hour!" Éomer returned, tears of gratitude shining in his eyes as he swung, with Éowyn in his arms like a child, upon onto Imrahil's mount, and wheeled its head about, bringing it to a swift gallop, back toward the city.

"Come men," Imrahil muttered, his voice shaking. "Let us help them gather their wounded, and bring them back into the city."

Lalaith's heart ached to race after Éomer, and ensure herself that Éowyn would be safe. But she knew she must stay, and help Pippin find Merry.

"Aragorn," she hissed swiftly, turning toward the ranger who had drawn near her, his face was filled with a sweet, mournful hope as he watched Éomer upon the prince's horse, fading before a cloud of heavy dust. She turned toward her friend and her fingers, trembling, found Aragorn's arm. "You have the gift of healing, go to the Houses of Healing, and care for Éowyn. The power is in you to bring her out of the shadows."

"Yes," he murmured, his hand finding hers as he gently squeezed. "I will go."

And with that, he turned away, and broke into a swift trot, toward the city gates.

"Lalaith!" Legolas' voice caused her head to spin swiftly, and she trotted toward her beloved where he and Pippin stood, perplexed, over a mound of cloth and metal upon the ground near to the great mound of the beheaded beast.

"What do you think of this?" Pippin asked softly, nudging the crumpled metal and cloth with his toe, seeming to have once been clad about a form, though now it lay empty upon the grass, the iron wrought helm of the Witch King lying nearby. Though Lalaith's eyes were drawn, rather, to her knife, seared and discolored upon the blade as if it had been exposed to blistering heat, lying nearby.

Bending down, and drawing up its familiar weight into her fist, Lalaith murmured softly, as the unmistakable impression entered her thoughts, "Merry held this, not long ago."

"Then he's nearby!" Pippin whispered hopefully as Lalaith glanced from him, to Legolas' eyes as her beloved smiled gently on her.

"Then let us find him," Legolas murmured softly.

...

Galadriel drew in a low sigh as she paused in the arching doorway of her talan, studying the maiden who sat upon a low stone seat beside the railing, her arms resting upon the silver fluted balustrade, while her chin rested upon her interlaced fingers.

"Calassë," she called gently, and the maiden turned her head, smiling briefly in greeting.

"Good evening, Nana," she returned softly.

A wave of relief washed over Galadriel's heart. So the child was not indignant at all, now that she had learned the truth, and Galadriel sighed at this comfort, gliding to where Calassë sat, before she too, seated herself lightly beside the maiden.

"Lady Lothirien told me that she found a book open, upon a stone beneath her talan," Galadriel began softly.

Calassë's eyes filled with repentant consternation at this. "She is unhappy that I forgot to return it?"

"No, child, no," Galadriel assured her, reaching out and catching Calassë's hand consolingly. "She was merely concerned at what you had read within its pages." Galadriel squeezed the maiden's hand gently and softly added, "As am I. You have been seated here, since your return this morning, taking neither rest nor repast. I would speak to you of what those pages revealed to you."

Calassë sighed low, and the sound was sweet and light, with no trace of bitterness in it, and Galadriel marveled quietly that it would be as Calassë returned the gentle squeeze of her hand.

"If I could choose, I would wait, to speak with-, him." And at the soft breathlessness in the maiden's voice, Galadriel knew she spoke of Elrohir.

"It will be then, as you wish," Galadriel murmured. Then leaning near, she placed a soft kiss to the maiden's cheek, and giving a last squeeze of her hand, rose to go.

"Ai, Nana, wait-," Calasse's voice suddenly fraught, called her back, and the Lady turned, to meet the girl's fair, bright eyes. "There is one thing I would wish to know from you."

Calassë's hand reached up, seeking for Galadriel's in much the same way Celebrian often sought for her hand as a child, when she wished for comfort or reassurance. Galadriel felt a tightness in her throat at this, and willingly took the proffered hand, drawing herself once more down upon the bench beside the maiden.

"I would know-, where I am and-," Calassë sighed. "These woods are not Doriath as I first supposed, for the sons of that," a brief flare of anger flashed across the maiden's face, "that vile wretch destroyed them. And so much more time has passed than I once thought-, I-,"

"You are in the woods of Lothlórien, so these woods are called," Galadriel breathed obligingly. "Fostered by the Galadhrim. And the year is 3018 of the Third Age. You lived in thralldom to Morgoth's host since before the beginning of the Second Age."

Calassë's eyes crushed closed at these words, a soft sigh breaking from her lips.

"For so long I was in the darkness," Calassë murmured. "I fear what I will remember, Nana. I would that he were here, with me. For I am not so afraid, when he is with me."

"Oh, my dear one," Galadriel murmured, leaning near, and drawing the maiden into an embrace to which Calassë willingly came, tucking herself beneath Galadriel's chin, as Celebrian had so often done. "Pain will indeed come," Galadriel agreed with a low sigh. "But I would have you remember, my dearest Calassë, when it does, that though you were in the darkness, it was never truly part of you. For you drew yourself out of it, and there is no darkness in you. Remember that, my daughter."

Calassë's brow furrowed at this, and she sighed, a brief heaviness in the sound. "I wish I could be with him, now." Calassë's hand tightened upon Galadriel's as upon a lifeline. "With all my heart, I long to be with him, to see his face, and speak to him of-, everything. I am not afraid when he is near. I wish I could feel his arms about me, again."

Galadriel's heart quavered for a moment upon these words, and a brief flash of foresight came to her mind. And troubling though it was, it brought also, a sense of comfort to her heart.

"You will, my dearest," Galadriel returned, studying the upturned pleading expression in Calassë's eyes as it changed to a look of hopeful gratitude even as the maiden's cheeks darkened with a warm flush. "It will indeed be only a little more time, before you will be once more in the arms of he who loves you above all others. And you will never lose him, again."

Calassë smiled softly, shyly at these words.

"I am grateful for you, Nana," Calassë murmured, snuggling closer into Galadriel's shoulder. "For all that you have done for me."

Calassë sighed, the sound so like Celebrian's voice, that a tear touched Galadriel's eye, and slipped down her cheek.

"And I am grateful for you, my daughter," Galadriel breathed. "More than words can express."

Long the Lady sat upon the bench by the balustrade, the maiden curled near like a child as the lights of Caras Galadhon below them faded to the silvery sheen of night.

...

Elrohir stood upon the edge of the talan perched high in the branches of one of the Mallyrn that stood high and proud on a rill that overlooked the shining ribbon of the Anduin that shone and sparkled beneath the moonlight, seeking for movement within the shadows across the river. A number of other Elven men of the Galadhrim Haldir among them, clad in shining armor, and gilded helmets, stood about the talan, or sat pensively, while off through the trees upon other aerial perches, other Elven warriors waited, watching for movement across the river.

Elrohir could feel a drop of sweat easing down the side of his face beneath his helmet, and he swiped it away as it trickled onto his jaw before he glanced at his bow, thoughtfully running his hand over the haft of it.

Celeborn stood a short space away from him, tall and proud upon the edge of the talan, silver armor girded about his broad chest, his golden hair uncovered catching in the sun, and the wind that blew from over the river as he studied the shadows there with a keen eye. A true lord he was among the Galadhrim, like a lion, the great cats of Harad Elrohir had read of, fierce and fearless in defense of his people.

At Elrohir's slight movement, his grandfather glanced over at him. The fire in Celeborn's gaze eased slightly as his eyes met those of his grandson, and a narrow smile touched his lips.

"Your vigilance is to be commended, Elrohir," he muttered softly. "One would think you guarded a Silmaril, from the fire in your eyes when you were in battle with our foe."

"Indeed," Elrohir muttered, his eyes falling slightly as his lips twitched with a thoughtful smirk. "I do guard a treasure. But Calassë is of value infinitely greater than a Silmaril, Grandfather. And she-," he could feel heat rising to his face as he spoke, but he did not care. "She is far more beautiful," he finished quietly.

Celeborn nodded silently at this, his gaze thoughtful for a long moment before he murmured softly, "Neither can she hide her caring for you, Elrohir. Her eyes betray her feelings, whether of friendship or more than that, it is early to tell, though of a certain, she adores you."

"No," Elrohir cut in quickly, shaking his head, his words fighting past the tight knot within his throat. "She adores Eärendil. It is not me she cares for."

Celeborn drew in a breath that swelled his chest as Elrohir's words, his blue eyes growing deep with thought.

"Nay, you are mistaken, my grandson!" he returned in a low voice that was at once both firm and gentle.

Elrohir drew in a shuddering sigh at these firm yet warmly spoken words, and dropped his eyes. A hand, firm as it clapped upon the stiff armor at his shoulder brought his head up, and he met Celeborn's warm eyes.

"For though she calls you Eärendil, the name of your father's father, it is you to whom she has given her trust, you to whom she turns for comfort."

Celeborn added with firmness his eyes gentle, "It matters not by what name she calls you."

"Yet I would have her know my true name," Elrohir breathed with sudden strength. "When next I see her, I will tell her the truth."

Celeborn said nothing to this as his eyes grew dark and shaded. "She trusts you above all others, and looks to you for strength," he breathed at last. "Be wise with your words."

"I will be," Elrohir vowed. "But Calassë has grown strong. Stronger than she was before. As much as I have cherished her dependence on me, she does not need me for strength as she once did. And that is as it should be."

A worried smile played across his lips at these words. "Though-, if she would permit me, I would care for her, forever." He glanced toward Celeborn who studied his grandson's gaze with a gentle look. "Even if I could be no more than a guardian to her, Grandfather, I would be content to be near her. For I know now, that I have lost my heart to her."

He swallowed softly, giving voice to the warm emotion that rose within him at last. "I love her," he murmured softly.

A slow smile began across Celeborn's features.

"This darkness will not always linger, my grandson," he offered quietly. "Light will come again."

With these words, Celeborn glanced away and said no more.

Elrohir turned his gaze eastward again, gazing out across the silver ribbon of the river, studying the darkness that lingered there, though within his heart, glowed a warm light.

...

"Merry!"

Lalaith cast a look over her shoulder at Legolas as Pippin's frantic voice echoed from across the field where the three had been searching for Merry all day, among the dead and wounded.

Night was a heavy still blanket across the quiet field, and though many wounded of the Rohirrim had been found and treated, and carried into the city, still Merry had not been found.

Even if he had been slain, finding his dear little body would be something of a comfort. But the aching uncertainty that they had not found even that, ate bitterly at Lalaith's heart, and Legolas' look of understanding at her dawning grief spoke clearly enough that he understood.

Lalaith sighed, turning back to her task and picking her way slowly over the still bodies of the fallen.

A groan nearby startled Lalaith, a grating ragged voice among a mound of dead men, and Lalaith started back. For the voice had not spoken in any language that she understood.

Lalaith drew in a deep breath as a hand lifted, and waved weakly, as if beckoning her nearer, the hand of an Easterling, laying still but moments before, an arrow buried deep in his chest. One of Legolas' arrows, she could see from the fletchings.

He groaned again, a word coughing from his lungs weakly as he waved his hand toward the waterbag Lalaith had slung over her shoulder for the wounded men of the Rohirrim she had been finding.

"Water?" she murmured softly, studying his dark eyes that sparked softly in the darkness. "You wish for water?"

He grunted, and nodded in assent. And Lalaith sighed long. Gulping hard, she drew a step forward, over the still forms of the Men of Rohan which lay about her, before she lowered herself to her knees beside the man, and hefted the weighty skin from her hip. She unbound the small water plug, and lifted the small gourd attached to it. Tipping a small amount of water into the gourd, she reached out toward the man, her free hand gently drawing away the cloth from about his face as she lifted the gourd to his lips.

The fair shape of his face startled her briefly, the strong youthful line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth as he tipped his head eagerly toward the water and drank.

"Were you one of the men upon the mûmak?" she queried softly. "Would you have slain my love had his arrow not found you first?"

Having satisfied his craving for water, the young Easterling let his head fall back wearily, studying her face above his own, his expression sad and silent, having not understood the Elf maiden's words.

Glancing away, he mumbled a few of his own, his hand lifting, and sliding up across his chest to slip his fingers beneath a portion of the cloth bound across his chest.

Lalaith started at the movement, and drew back, wondering if his fingers were grasping for a weapon. But instead, they withdrew, holding a small cord bound at both ends with string. The man held it out for her, his eyes hopeful, and obligingly, Lalaith reached out, and took it into her fingers, realizing then, that it was a strand of plaited hair. Woman's hair, she guessed, glancing back at the man's eyes.

"This is your love's hair," Lalaith guessed, and the man's lips curled up in a weak smile as if he somehow understood her words. "She gave it to you before your departure."

Gently, she slipped the cool plait of hair back into the man's trembling fingers, and he brought the strand to his lips, kissing it softly, and murmuring quietly in his own tongue.

"I shall see what can be done for you, my lord," she murmured softly as the young Easterling turned his eyes skyward, studying the pinpricks of the stars, his gaze enraptured as if he had never seen them, before.

Lalaith glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of a pair of Gondorian soldiers not a far distance away, with white satchels across their armored shoulders, medicines, and bandages, she knew, and lifted a hand.

"My lords!" she cried, and their heads lifted at her cry.

"Another wounded of the Horse Lords, my lady?" one called as they trotted near to her.

"No," she returned as they drew nearer. "Of our enemy, an Easterling. But I would have you do what you might for him."

"Indeed. Our duty as his foe is passed," the second returned agreeably as the pair stopped beside her. "Do not fear, lady, we shall do all that we can for him-,"

The man's words were stopped by his comrade however, as the first man clapped a gauntleted hand upon his arm, and nodded past Lalaith's shoulder.

She turned, her breath catching in her throat. For the man's eyes were already dim, his breath stilled, the strand of hair clutched in limp fingers against his lips as his sightless eyes studied the stars.

"Lalaith!"

A ragged cry from Pippin, some distance away, shook her from the heaviness of the moment, and she glanced away, as did the armored soldiers, in the direction of Pippin's voice.

"Lalaith, Legolas!" he wailed. "I found him!"

Lalaith burst to her feet, leaping with suddenly lightened steps past the young soldiers, and dashing across the field toward the shadowed bulk of a mûmak where Pippin's voice had come from. Legolas was coming as well, drawing near from another direction, and they met as the rounded the massive mounded body of the dead beast to find Pippin huddled upon the ground near the bulk of a dead uruk, cradling Merry to him, Merry's form covered over in the small Elvish cloak that Pippin had been carrying about, in the hopes that he might find his kinsman, Merry whose nose issued a small trail of blood, his eyes dim and unfocused, though-, Lalaith's heart sang within her, casting off its earlier pall. For Merry was moving, sighing softly.

"Lalaith and Legolas are here, Merry," Pippin urged softly, and the small wounded Hobbit shifted slightly, his eyes focusing upon the two Elves above his head.

"Oh," he breathed softly. "Pippin found me, I knew he would. And-," Merry smiled, and a tear stung the corner of Lalaith's eye at the sight of his well loved cheer. "I knew you would not be far behind, Lalaith."

"Come," Legolas offered, stooping down, and scooping Merry's small form up in his capable arms, taking care to keep the cloaked wrapped around him as Pippin willingly relinquished his friend. "Let us take you to the healers in the city."

To this Merry said nothing, though he nodded, and wearily let his head sag against the Elf's shoulder as Legolas started in a swift march across the field. Lalaith, and Pippin, followed beside him Pippin clinging tightly to her hand for assurance as he trotted swiftly beside her, eager to keep pace with Legolas the whole of the way.

...

Mists and fire swirled around him, the streets choked with ash, the bodies of the dead littering the once bright streets as Glorfindel stalked along, his sword, drenched in black blood, clenched in his fist. Where was she? Dead? Dying? Or worse?

"Calassë!" he screamed. "Calassë!" But none answered his cry.

"My fair, beautiful one, where are you?" his voice cried wild desperation in his tone. "Do not be lost! My world will end without you!"

"Glorfindel!"

A gasp, pleading and frightened, shook him from his black dreams, and they wavered and were gone like wafting smoke, and he woke swiftly, finding himself upon a divan in the Hall of Fire, staring up at the high arched ceiling where the low flames of a fire cast mottled shadows. Ithilwen was sitting up beside him, her hair slightly askew, clenching his hand in hers as she studied him with wide eyes.

"Glorfindel, do not fear. I am here, I am safe."

"Ai, Ithilwen," he breathed, pushing himself higher, his heart heavy that she was so frightened on his account. "Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you distress. I was dreaming again of-, of Gondolin-,"

"Oh-, of-, Gondolin?" she murmured, drawing back, a look of concern furrowing the smooth ivory of her features.

Glorfindel pushed himself higher, wondering at the look of emptiness that darkened her shining eyes for the briefest moment.

"Ithilwen my beloved," he murmured softly, lifting his fingers, and brushing them lightly against her warm cheek. "Once again, you have cast the shadows back with your light. Grateful I am, that the Valar deemed me worthy to be blessed with such love as yours."

"It is late," she murmured, sighing at his touch before she drew gently back, and glanced away. "Nearer to morning than from evening. I did not mean to fall into my dreams here beside you. I should go now. My kinsfolk will be concerned." She stood, stiffness in her movements, and Glorfindel straightened, sitting up quickly.

"It is no more your fault, than mine, my love," he returned gently, reaching for her hand before she could fully escape him.

She glanced back and down at him, her lips soft, though unsmiling as he drew her back toward him. Glorfindel studied her face, demure and soft in the dying light, recalling the previous evening when they had curled up together in the warm shadows here in this distant corner of the hall. They had both fallen into their dreams together then, Glorfindel realized with a touch of chagrin, though not without a sense of warm gladness.

Ithilwen continued to gaze on him, unsmiling, and Glorfindel drew in a low sigh, reaching for her other hand.

"Forgive me, Ithilwen," he whispered again. "I will speak to your kinsfolk, and vouch for you honor, if you fear that they will think-,"

"They know you," she returned softly. "They know you would not behave dishonorably."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Then why-,"

"It is nothing," Ithilwen said suddenly, her voice bearing a forced brightness in it. "But I must go. I will see you when the sun has claimed the sky."

"Ithilwen-," he called after her, but the maiden had glided swiftly away, and was gone beyond the shadows of the far doorway, lost in the corridor beyond.

Confused, he rose to follow after her, but stopped suddenly, falling back as if suddenly dizzy, onto the divan, raising a hand to his head as an image of golden trees, entered his thoughts, and a maiden appeared, her face indistinct, as if through a silver mist, though Glorfindel could sense, well enough as she gazed off and away, that her thoughts were bent upon someone. And then another image wavered, and came into his thoughts, more clear than the first, of a man's face. Elrohir, the figure was, clad in armor, his eyes pensive, with a look that Glorfindel understood all too well, the look of fixed determination, of a warrior awaiting the coming of battle. And though it was but an intangible sensation, Glorfindel knew, with no shred of doubt, that Elrohir's every thought was bent upon the fair maiden whose face lay hidden beyond mist, and hers upon Elrohir.

A heavy sense of helplessness gripped him at the passage of these images, and with an ache that throbbed in his heart, he wished to be where the maiden was, to help her, to guard her from evil as Elrohir was doing. But he was not there. Elrohir was. Glorfindel was here, with Ithilwen. Her own feelings, her own heart saddened by some secret ache, were his duty now. And he would see to it, that she, the one he loved, would smile again.

Quickly, he rose.

Alone in the shadows of the corridor, Ithilwen fell wearily against a pillar, and dropped her face in her hands, struggling to stifle the weeping at what she had heard him speaking in his dreams.

His words had not been clear, the garbled, half spoken speech of sleep. But she had heard enough, and had thought, at the first, that he had been speaking of her. But now, to realize that he had spoken of someone else, lost to him in Gondolin's fall, her heart wept. Not only for herself, but for Glorfindel, and this grief that still lived within him. For surely, from the words of his tortured dreams, his grieving half spoken words had hinted at a lost lover, a beautiful maiden dear to him, slain, or taken, in the Fall of Gondolin.

Why had he never spoken to her of this lost love, before? Was the pain too great? And if he had once loved another, what was Ithilwen to him? But Glorfindel, Ithilwen quickly reminded herself, repenting of her brief uncertainty, was no charlatan. If he said he loved her, then truly, he did.

"Finwë loved two women," she murmured softly to herself, her eyes crushing shut against the tears that squeezed forth. "And honored and adored each in her turn. Better, I suppose, to have half his heart, than none at all. She is not here to fill his life, and bring him happiness. And so, I will." She drew in a shuddering sigh. "And it is enough."

"Ithilwen? Ithilwen!" Glorfindel's warm, glowing shadow appeared before her from the dying light of the hall, his strong hands finding her slender arms where she huddled in the dark against the pillar. "Here you are!" He smiled in the dark as Ithilwen swiftly wiped tears away. "What need have you to hide in the shadows, my love?"

"None," she breathed softly, coming quickly into his arms, her heart quickening its pace as she felt him against her, her softness crushed against the firm strength of his chest as she clutched him close to herself, and buried her face against his shoulder. "None. I needed but a moment to-, to myself."

"Ithilwen," he murmured tenderly, pushing her back, but only slightly as he bent his head, and brushed his lips over the lines of wetness upon her cheeks.

"You have been weeping," he whispered against her face. "Why?"

"It matters not," she insisted. "I am not weeping now."

Glorfindel studied her gaze with sad boyish eyes. He clearly wished for her to speak the truth, but somehow understood that she could not. "When the darkness is past, we will be wed. And I will be yours, forever, even beyond the ending of Arda, Ithilwen. I love you."

"I know," she returned quietly. And rising on her toes, she pressed her lips softly against his. Glorfindel smiled into her kiss, more than eager to return the sweetly warm caresses of her mouth before Ithilwen drew back and smiled timorously up at him. "And it is-, enough."

Glorfindel smiled, and reached for her hand. "Come then, and I shall take you home."


	47. Chapter 46

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 46

May 10, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Sunlight spilled in slanting spears of golden light through the high windows of the throne room, bathing the chamber in a warm glow that Lalaith had not noted in the days before the great battle had been won as the great doors boomed shut behind her and she strode briskly across the marble floor toward the men, gathered at the foot of the throne. The skirts of the white gown Éowyn had gifted to her, whispered about her legs, and she sighed softly, grateful to be back again in women's garb. Gandalf was pacing slowly about clearly awaiting her arrival. Aragorn stood some distance away from the wizard, his arms crossed, his eyes bearing a thoughtful mien as they turned from one of the statues he had been gazing upon to meet her eyes. A brief smile touched the ranger's face at the sight of her, which she returned, glad for her friend's comforting presence, for though yet uncrowned, he already bore about him, the air of a king.

Legolas stood near the Steward's throne with Éomer at his shoulder while Gimli was smoking nonchalantly upon his pipe, seated casually in the seat that had once been Denethor's, Faramir's now that the duties of the Steward had passed to Denethor's surviving son. She drew in a breath, long and deep, tasting in the air that stirred within the great throne room, a scent of young flowers. Spring was bursting upon them at last, as if in sudden fearless, now that the shadow had been pushed back. The scent of spring had wafted through the airy windows of Éowyn's room as well, Lalaith remembered, in the Houses of Healing she had left but a few minutes before, when Imrahil had come for her, bidding her to follow him to the great hall at Gandalf's summons.

With Pippin ever at his side to cheer him, Merry had been in glad spirits, Lalaith recalled, a smirk playing across her lips. Well did she remember how Ioreth, the stern but gentle handed Chief Matron of the Houses of Healing had scolded Pippin for keeping the wounded Hobbit from his rest. But Merry was indeed healing quickly, and would be released from the Houses, soon.

Éowyn had been well, though when Lalaith had sat briefly with her in the rooms she had been given. The slender lady of Rohan had seemed wistful, sad even, as the two maidens stood at the window of Éowyn's room as she studied the wrappings about her left forearm, and had in soft words questioned Lalaith on Éomer's health, and the plans for her uncle's return to Rohan, and burial. Tears had touched Éowyn's eyes as the Elf maiden had answered her concerning the latter, and Lalaith had ached for her, knowing how deeply she would grieve herself, were she to endure Elrond's death. Yet somehow, Lalaith had sensed that this was not all that grieved the courageous maiden from Rohan. For Éowyn's eyes had borne a distant look bereft of hope, a grief beyond her sadness for the fallen, and Lalaith could not tell why.

But then Faramir had come, a loose tunic drawn over the bandages wrapped about his chest. Éowyn had turned at his coming before Lalaith had, somehowsensing Faramir's presence before the Elf maiden had. And even now, Lalaith's limbs tingled with gladness remembering the way Faramir's gentle eyes had fixed past her, and lighted upon Éowyn, adoring her as if no others were near.

It was then that one of the matrons of the House had come bearing a torch, and had bidden Lalaith to come at Prince Imrahil's request. Willingly, Lalaith had followed her out, leaving Éowyn and Faramir standing alone, an endearingly awkward, yet tender silence hovering warm in the air between them.

Lalaith drew in a long contented breath, these thoughts fading to the back of her mind as Imrahil drew to a stop and held back, though Lalaith continued on, and drew nearer to the dais as Legolas glanced up at Éomer's side, his gaze finding her own. Such a soft gaze, much like the way Faramir had looked upon Éowyn, that Lalaith could not help but flush with pleasure as she drew near to him, her hand reaching out, and slipping eagerly into his own hand, extended in offering. He offered her a slight bow of his head, ever courteous before the others as he drew her to his side. Yet his eyes, and the corners of his mouth, twitching in a brief, mischievous grin, spoke easily enough of his desire to cast decorum aside, and greet her as he had upon the battle field, once the danger had passed.

At Legolas' shoulder Éomer shifted his weight and cleared his throat softly.

"My lord," Lalaith offered courteously to Rohan's young king.

"My lady," he murmured in a low greeting, casting his eyes to the marble tiles, clearing attempting to ignore the way Legolas subtly drew her closer against him.

"Gandalf has only just summoned us," Legolas murmured near her ear. "What he means to speak of, we do not yet know."

"Lalaith, I thank you for coming," Gandalf added, his gravelly voice echoing in the long hall as he turned to her, and inclined his head slightly.

"Indeed, it was no trouble," she returned. "Prince Imrahil bid me come from the Houses of Healing, though he for himself, had other duties among his men."

"I trust my sister is well?" Éomer muttered softly.

"She is," Lalaith returned, offering him a bow of her head in return. "I left her in the able care of Gondor's Steward, who was wounded upon the field of battle, but yet lives, and is returning to his own health as is she."

Éomer cocked a brow at this, but said no more as Gandalf sighed, and began slowly to pace about, as Aragorn turned away, gazing studiously up into the face of the statue he had been considering before.

"My lords," said Gandalf slowly, before he glanced at Lalaith, and with a brief smile and gentle nod added, "and lady-, listen to the words of the Steward of Gondor before he died: `You may triumph on the field of battle for a day, but against the power that has risen in the east, the can be no victory.' I do not bid you despair as he did, but to ponder the meaning of his words. For though spoken in madness, they bore a small measure of truth."

Beyond Gandalf, Aragorn drew in a deep breath that lifted his shoulders before he released it, and they fell again, though the ranger said nothing.

"The Stones of seeing do not lie, and not even the Lord of Barad-Dûr can make them do so. He can, maybe, by his will choose what things shall be seen by weaker minds, or cause them to mistake the meaning of what they see. Nonetheless it cannot be doubted that Denethor saw great forces arrayed in Mordor."

Gandalf paused in his slow pacing before the steps of the dais, his gaze grown deep and thoughtful. "And Frodo," he murmured, heaviness in his voice, "has passed beyond my sight." He slowly strode away across the floor.

"The darkness is deepening," he breathed.

"If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it," Aragorn cut in, speaking at last now, though he did not turn.

"It's only a matter of time," Gandalf murmured, turning toward Aragorn's back. "He has suffered a defeat, yes. But behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping."

"Let him stay there!" Gimli crowed, popping his pipe briefly from his mouth. "Let him rot! Why should we care?"

"Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom," Gandalf returned, turning toward the Dwarf and stepping nearer a pace, his eyes heavy with the weight of the worry he bore. He sighed heavily and glanced away. "I've sent him to his death."

"No," Aragorn cut in, his voice mild though firm as the ranger turned about to face the wizard. "There is still hope for Frodo."

Lalaith drew in a long breath as Aragorn's voice gained in strength and surety. "He needs time. And safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that."

"How?" Gimli demanded, his voice a gravelly tone.

"Draw out Sauron's armies," Aragorn returned, turning toward the Dwarf as a brightness lit the ranger's eyes that caused a spark of pride to take hold in Lalaith's heart. "Empty his lands. Then we gather our strength and March on the Black Gate."

Lalaith blinked at this, her mouth falling open momentarily while at her side, Legolas stiffened imperceptibly. In the Steward's throne beside her, Gimli choked and wheezed in his own sudden shock.

"We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms," Éomer cut in swiftly, stepping forward, his erect stance speaking of his own alarm at Aragorn's words.

"Not for ourselves," Aragorn returned, his voice twined through with mildness and strength. "But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron's eye fixed upon us."

"Indeed," Lalaith offered quietly, her eyes falling as she regained her thoughts lost briefly at Aragorn's unexpected suggestion. "If we march against him, we shall bring his gaze upon us, and blind him to all else that moves. Frodo will not be so easily detected."

Aragorn glanced at her as she said this, and nodded tersely.

"A diversion," Legolas added with a lift of his chin, understanding now entering his eyes as well, though he cast a brief, questioning glance at Lalaith after the words were out of his mouth.

"If we march against him?" he queried, returning her own words to her beneath his breath.

Lalaith pursed her lips at this, and met the eyes of her beloved steadily, to which he furrowed his brows and glanced away, though he said nothing.

"Certainty of death," Gimli chortled loudly, his pipe clenched between his teeth, "small chance of success-," he nodded, waving his free hand about as he concluded with brash Dwarvish sarcasm, "what are we waiting for?"

"Sauron will suspect a trap," Gandalf murmured, drawing near to Aragorn. "He will not take the bait."

"Oh, I think he will," Aragorn murmured back, a smile claiming his face as a light flashed within his eyes.

And in that moment, Lalaith's heart leaped within her, for in his certainty, she found strength, and eager willingness to join this new quest to aide Frodo how they might, from beyond the lands of Mordor.

Yet at her side, Legolas had turned his eyes down, a gentle, yet fixed frown upon his lips as he quietly contemplated his own secret thoughts.


	48. Chapter 47

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 47

May 30, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

A light tapping at her door turned Lalaith's head from the mirror in the antechamber of her rooms where she stood, plaiting her hair in a single rope over her shoulder.

"Come," she called, casting a quick glance at herself in the mirror her eyes flashing over her tunic of soft grey, her leggings and jerkin of darker blue, and her boots of twilight blue bound comfortably about her slender calves, all the soft warm tones that reminded her of home in Imladris.

Her bow and quiver with her arrows and knives, were across her back, the belts of her quiver roughly tooled that had once been Théodred's, were strained and twisted after the quiver had caught upon the beam across the mûmak's back. But still the quiver was serviceable enough for her needs, and Lalaith did not wish to be parted from it.

"My lady,"

The small voice, a boy's voice, close and nervous, followed upon the soft creaking of the door, and Lalaith smiled at Bergil, the young son of Beregond who stood before her.

He studied her face, her mannishly clad form, and then he ducked his head. His cheeks flushed warm as he shifted his weight, his hands held behind him.

"Good day, young one," she returned, a smile coming to her face as she studied the lad's endearingly shy features, the light etching his rumpled little head. "I trust you will be well while your father is away with us?"

"Ioreth, the chief matron of the Healing Houses, is a distant kinswoman of my mother and she has agreed to care for me until my family has all returned again," he returned quietly.

"I am glad to know it," Lalaith answered. "She is a fine lady." She studied the boy's downturned head, and smiled softly. "Was there perhaps a reason such a fine young lord as yourself, has blessed me with a visit?"

Bergil offered a timid smile at this.

"I wished to return this to you," he offered as he drew his hands from behind his back, and Lalaith's smile softened at what she saw cradled in his hands, though it quickly returned, her heart leaping with joy. "It looks Elven made. I asked Pippin if it was his, but he said it is not, but that it looked familiar to him, and that it might be yours-,"

"Where did you find this?" Lalaith gasped gratefully, snatching the small sheathed knife from his hands, Galadriel's gift to her, before they had left the Golden Wood. "I thought it had been lost. It was not in my boot after Pippin saved me and Faramir from the burning pyre. I did not know what became of it."

"It was found by Lord Denethor's servants, among his belongings in his private chambers, my lady," a breathless voice came from the door as Ioreth's slender shadow appeared, her gaze fixed upon Bergil, her expression one of affectionate scolding. Her face, framed by a clean white cowl, was lovely in spite of the years furrowed upon it. Bergil ducked his head as Ioreth flashed a glance at Lalaith, smiling as she drew into the fore chamber. "It was found in a small box of baby girl's clothing our lady Finduilas made long ago, in the hopes that one day, she might have a daughter."

The matron of the Houses of Healing sighed and shrugged her small, capable shoulders dismissively at the thought.

"I am glad Lord Beregond's young son found its owner," she continued, placing a hand about Bergil's shoulders, and studying the boy with a raised eyebrow. Bergil blushed at this, though he smiled when he saw Ioreth's eyes twinkle gently. "Though he must needs be reminded not to dart away, when he is assisting the Healers in their duties."

"Yes, my lady," Bergil muttered softly, to which Lalaith's heart grew warm, and she reached out, ruffling the boy's hair in her fingers as he blushed and grinned.

"In truth, my lady, I am glad I had this excuse to come here before your departure," the mortal woman offered with a gentle smile. "I wished for you to know that I too, have seen how well the lady Éowyn heals under the nurturing care of our good lord, Faramir."

A smirk made its way across Ioreth's thin lips at these words, and Lalaith could not help but return the grin, her heart leaping in joy at the look of understanding within the mortal woman's eyes.

"And Lord Faramir, I do not doubt, returns to strength as well, more swiftly, perhaps, because of the lady's company." Lalaith returned.

"So he does," Ioreth answered, her voice laced with a hint of joy. "When your host returns at last to Minas Tirith, perhaps there will be glad news concerning our dear Steward, and the fair lady of Rohan."

Lalaith grinned broadly. "I shall look forward with joy then, to our return."

"As will I," a new voice sounded from the doorway, Lalaith's heart leaping to hear it as a flush darkened her cheeks. She turned her head, seeing Legolas' shadow etched in the light of the doorway.

"Ah, young Bergil," Ioreth sighed loudly, tightening her hand about Bergil's shoulder. Ioreth cast Lalaith an approving smirk over the boy's head as she turned him away. "Shall we return to the Healing Houses?"

"Yes, my lady," Bergil replied in an amused tone that betrayed his understanding at the warm flush upon Lalaith's cheeks.

"Come along, then, we both have many duties to see to."

Ioreth led Bergil to the door, casting a smile toward the Elven prince.

"May all go well with you, my lord," Ioreth offered politely as she and Bergil passed him.

"And with you, noble lady," Legolas offered her a short bow as Ioreth and Bergil passed into the sunlight beyond the doorway before he turned forward again, his smile softening as his eyes rested upon Lalaith's.

Drawing inward, he closed the door softly behind him, his features growing more distinct in the faint light.

"What is this?" he asked softly in their own tongue, stepping near to study the knife in her hands. He sighed softly, bidding her with his eyes, to which she offered the small weapon into his hands.

"The Lady's gift," he murmured, his eyes unreadable as he drew the short blade out a space and then clapped it softly back into its sheath. "You had feared it lost."

"It was found among Lord Denethor's belongings, and the child Bergil brought it to me," she added softly, her blood warming at his nearness. "It may yet prove useful in this last great battle before the Black Gates."

Legolas sighed again, his eyes silent and sad before he offered, "Then allow me-,"

To this, he lowered himself one knee before her. Lalaith turned her eyes down, watching his golden hair falling about his sturdy shoulders. His hands brushed over her right calf as he tucked the sheathed blade into the outer edge of her boot.

Even through the cloth of her breeches, Lalaith could feel the warmth of his fingers against her leg, and her breath quickened as he lifted his eyes to hers and slowly rose before her, the warmth of him reaching out to her across the narrow space between them.

"Lalaith nin," he sighed softly, his breath warm against her face as he towered above her once again, and took her hands within his own. "Is there naught I can say to persuade you to stay rather than to take the journey with us to the Black Gate?"

Lalaith sighed softly at these words and squeezed his hands softly with her own, saying nothing.

"Lalaith!" Legolas breathed softly, drawing her hands near to his face, cradling them as he bent his head, gently caressing her fingertips with the barest brush of his lips. "You know that this mission is without hope of victory!"

"I do," Lalaith returned, closing her eyes against the sight of his blinding gaze, her hands finding the stiff cloth of his jerkin. Her fingertips could feel the tautness of his muscles even beneath the cloth.

"Our numbers are too few," Legolas breathed, his arms falling from her face, finding her shoulders, his fingertips unconsciously kneading the soft muscles as his voice took on a pleading, persuasive tone. "If Frodo cannot find a way to the mountain, if the One Ring does not fall into the fire in time-,"

"I am coming with you," Lalaith breathed, her voice cutting off his as she opened her eyes, and lifted her gaze to his. "Do you not remember our words in Imladris before our departure upon this quest?"

"I remember," Legolas sighed as he withdrew a step, his eyes glazed in defeat, though his hands tightly clutched her own. "Well do I remember. You spoke of the evil in your past, that you must come upon the quest, to fully defeat Sauron's hold upon you."

"Sauron once tried to destroy me, and though I escaped, his shadow still lingers upon me," Lalaith returned, her voice sad. "I cannot fully defeat it, until I face him. I must face him again Legolas, I must face him fully, and let him know that I am no longer helpless before him. Only then, can I truly defeat him, and cast off the last of his shadow."

Legolas sighed at this and pulled her to him, his body taut and warm beneath the cloth of his garb as he tucked his jaw against her hair. "Would that I could do all things for you," he breathed.

Lalaith burrowed her face against his neck, drawing in the warm musky scent of him, greedily. That she could stay here, like this forever-,

"Will you forgive me?" he asked softly.

"For what?" Lalaith asked, lifting her head suddenly to find his eyes.

Legolas smiled as their gazes met, and lifted a hand, touching his fingers to the rope of her hair, letting it slide absently through his fingers.

"For my weakness, Lalaith nin," he gulped softly, his eyes meeting hers. "For my wish to shield you from that which you must face."

"There is nothing to forgive," she returned gently. "And even so, you are easy to forgive. You fear for me, because you love me. That is not a fault."

"You will not face him alone, you know this, do you not?" Legolas gulped softly. "I will not be far from you."

"I know," she returned.

"Come," he murmured at last, drawing back, and seeking for her hand. His fingers wove comfortingly through her own. "I have already seen to Hasufel. Your mount is ready, and waiting for you beside Arod."

...

The dark blue mantel Faramir had given her, embraced her slender form, sheltering her from the chill of the air about her, though it did little to ward of the pain within her heart as Éowyn stood upon a high wall, watching Aragorn's host wending their way slowly out of the city.

Her friend Lalaith was riding with him, she and her lover, Legolas, as well as dear Lord Gimli-,

Éowyn heaved a deep sigh, running her fingers unconsciously over the wrappings enshrouding her left arm as it slowly healed. A part of her heart wished to be riding with him as well, beside him, fearless and ready to face danger beside him. But yet, much of her heart was glad to stay behind, not out of fear, but rather because-,

A sound behind her, as if it complied with the secret wishes of her heart, sounded in her ears, the familiar scuff of soft boots, and she felt his presence as he approached.

"The city has fallen silent," she murmured softly as Faramir came to her side, the very air seeming to warm slightly at his approach. "There is no warmth left in the sun. It grows so cold."

"It's just the damp of the first spring rain," he offered softly.

Her very soul stirred within her at the sound of his voice, and Éowyn turned, lifting her eyes to his.

His gaze met hers, tender and adoring. "I do not believe this darkness with endure," Faramir breathed softly.

Her heart grew warm as he spoke, his voice a tender caress. She felt his fingers against hers, warm and lean and strong, seeking her own hand. She slipped her own cold hand into his warm grip, and he gently tightened his hold, comfortingly, protectively.

How well her hand fit within his, she thought, as if it had always belonged there-, as if-,

Her heart fairly swelled at the sudden emotion that grew within her. In all her longings for Aragorn, in all her hopeless wishings and desperate pleadings, she had not felt such a sense of belonging, of rightness, of sweet and tender devotion as she felt for Faramir. All that she had felt for Aragorn seemed no more than a child's day dream, now. And as this understanding drew itself over her heart, she began to smile slowly, her lips trembling as she did. And Faramir, oh, dear Faramir seemed as if to drink in the warmth of her smile as a thirsting man drinks water. And she could only adore him more for it.

Suddenly wanting no more than his strength, his comfort, and the warmth of his closeness, Éowyn leaned in nearer to him, and bent her head, resting it upon his shoulder as she closed her eyes contentedly, basking in the warmth of him. His free arm circled about her then, drawing her tenderly against him as his cheek came to rest upon her hair.

...

Calassë lay awake in the silver darkness of her chamber, restless, unable to sleep as she stared up at the arched ceiling. She could not tell what watch the night had passed into, but she was certain it was but a few hours from morning.

She shuddered, pushing the bedclothes back as she rose, the floor smooth and cool beneath her bare feet as she padded softly back and forth, her fingers running swifly through her unbound hair. What were these thoughts churning within her mind? Why could she not cease to think of him? Surely he would return soon, but-,

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and pressed a hand against her heart. She longed with all that she was, to be near him. To see him, to speak to him. To feel his arms about her, to feel the swift rise and fall of his breath in their embrace-,

Never could she remember feeling such wild stirrings as she felt now, and knowing that he could be in danger, these new sensations were scewered through with twisted barbs of pain, turning tender anticipation into sorrowing fear.

Calassë drew in a shuddering breath.

"Unwise as this wish is, I want to be with you. I would know your name from your own lips, my dear one. I would know everything from you, and I would not fear the newness of it all, if I am where you are," she whispered into the darkness.

"I want to be with you," she ended in a soft, breathless whisper, feeling a sudden determination steeling slowly over her heart, and growing now into a firm resolve.

"Naneth, forgive me," she breathed softly. "Foolish as I am, my will is set. I must do this."

...

Galadriel came awake upon her wide bed unconsciously reaching out for Celeborn, aching for the comfort of his arms, only to find the sheets empty as she slowly rose from the bliss of her dreams.

She sat up, shivering, alone in the silver darkness. Galadriel sighed softly before she rose, and cast a robe about her slender form, rising to cross the room.

The door drew open at her touch as she descended the steps from her chamber, seeking the doorway to Calassë's room.

The maiden was gone, she knew. She had sensed Calassë's departure even in her dreams.

The mother in her had wished to stop the maiden, to go after her and call her back. But a whisper of peace had stayed her rising.

The doorway into Calassë's chamber, the room that had so long before belonged to Celebrian, stood slightly ajar and drew open easily at her touch.

Galadriel stepped across the threshhold and studied the room with a heart that was heavy, yet warm with a peace that lingered even at the sight of Calassë's empty bed.

The bed clothes had been tucked neatly, the room in perfect order as it had been the day Calassë had come. The small silver, star woven blanket was gone from the end of her bed, as was the fruit that had been set in a basin upon a nearby table. A small bit of parchment rested upon the maiden's pillow.

Gliding softly forward, Galadriel caught it up, tears pricking her eyes at the words etched upon the page.

"Dearest Naneth, I have gone to find him. I wished to wait for his return, but my heart biddens me to hasten. Forgive me. I do not wish to cause you to fear for me, but I must go to him."

Galadriel heaved a deep sigh, and sat heavily upon the bed.

"Dear Valar, give her strength," she murmured softly. "For all that she has yet to face."

...

Elrohir moved silently along the narrow aerial pathway, the sturdy, interwoven branches of the Mallyrn, his feet lightly finding their way from one branch to another even as his eyes remained fixed upon the shadowed line of trees across the Anduin. The faint lanterns upon the talan behind him were growing fainter as he and Rumil moved through the shadowed canopy. And the lights upon the distant flet before them, grew nearer, outlining the shadows of several Elves, rigid alert, awaiting attack.

Elrohir brushed a sweating hand across his brow, shifting the pouch of rationed lembas against his hip that hung on a strap of leather over his shoulder. The wait was growing long as the Galadhrim waited for the forces of Dol Guldur to attack them once again. And Elrohir grit his teeth silently as he with Rumil upon his heels, leapt deftly from one branch to another as their eyes scanned the shadowed undergrowth beneath them, feeling the chafing impatience he often did when he was forced to wait in such nervous silence as this.

His merry, playful, often mischievous nature did not take well to such unending, infernal inaction, and the weighted, ragged silence would surely drive him entirely mad if he had not Calassë to fix his thoughts upon.

Calassë, he thought to himself, and he offered himself a tentative grin, imagining her slender form seated before a mirror, a brush moving through the tresses of her golden hair, and a silent sigh broke past his lips.

Ai, but she was beautiful-,

"Lord Elrohir!" Rumil's hushed voice sounded near, and he felt Elf's hand clapped upon his arm.

Elrohir turned to glance at the yellow haired Elf who nodded downward, his eyes fixed away through the shadows from behind them. And Elrohir heard the sound now, a rustle moving through the undergrowth upon the forest floor moving from the west, near toward their high perch.

"Orcs?" Rumil hissed softly, drawing a slender arrow from his quiver, and fitting it to the string. "And only one? Yet it moves eastward. Away from Caras Galadhon."

"Summon your brother, my grandfather and the others," he ordered swiftly, his hand tightening upon his bow.

"What of the danger? Should I not-,"

"Go!" he ordered.

"Yes, my lord," Rumil returned swiftly, and darted away, the branches barely creaking beneath his feet.

Elrohir turned his thoughts toward the shadowed figure upon the ground, that had drawn almost directly beneath him.

Sucking in a swift breath, he scampered and leapt from one twining branch to the other, down nearer toward the ground. His footfalls fell silent upon the branches as he went, though his heart pounded noisily in his throat. Perhaps his instincts had been wrong. Perhaps he should have bidden Rumil to join him. But he would not let himself think on this as he brandished his courage. With swift footfalls, he skirted about the stumbling figure, an until shadow stumbling in and out of the shaded undergrowth until he pounced at last from a low branch to the forest floor, in the path of the unseen shadow, his arrow to the string, his bow drawn to his cheek just as the figure came scrambling out of the heavy undergrowth and drew in a sudden gasp at the arrow trained upon her face, her eyes meeting his, at last.

His hammering heart thundered to an abrupt halt within him as her eyes, large and soft in her fair, dirt smudged face, met his.

"Calassë?" he demanded breathlessly, swiftly lowering his bow.

"My lord," Calassë returned, catching a gasp in her voice as a small pack upon her shoulder slipped and fell to the ground in surprise.

"Why are you here, in this place of danger?" he demanded gently.

"Do not be angry-," she breathed softly, her eyes large in her dirt smudged face, her countenance one of endearing, apologetic submission.

"Ai, Calassë," Elrohir's heart caught upon a fierce throb at these words and he strode to her, catching her slender form in his arms. "I am not angry-,"

His voice trailed away at the sudden stirrings that rose within him at the soft press of her soft, warm body against his own.

"I am not angry, Calassë," he breathed as she sighed within the circle of his arms, and nestled her head against his neck, pressing herself all the more softly against him, which served only to send his blood pulsing all the more heatedly through his veins. "But I fear for you. You should not be here. The forces of Dol Guldur-,"

"I know of Eärendil, my lord,"

Elrohir stiffened at these words, a shaft of fear lancing through his heart. Slowly, he drew back, his hands finding Calassë's narrow shoulders as he turned his eyes down to study her own.

For a long moment he studied her face, fair and soft beneath the smudges of dirt that were streaked there.

"You-," he stammered, seeking her eyes for a hint of anger, or reproach. "You know I am not he?"

"I found a book-, I know of Elwing, of the Silmaril-," Calassë sighed, and Elrohir's jaw tightened at the look of quiet sadness that claimed her face. "I know he has sailed away, and I have lost him. I wish that I could have seen him again. I wish I could have kept my promise-,"

"Forgive me, I did not intend to deceive you, Calassë," he began in a swift murmur. "I longed to tell you, but my grandmother wished-,"

"Hush, my dearest," Calassë whispered softly, a slender cool finger against his lips silencing his hurried words. His lips trembled at her touch. "I understand."

Elrohir gulped hard at the warmth in her eyes, the sweet smile upon her lips as her hand slid from his lips, and brushed lightly against his jaw.

"Calassë," he murmured, lifting a hand to cover hers where it rested against his cheek. "Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive, my dear one," she returned, her voice bearing a tender tone.

"Then why have you come?" he queried softly. "Glad as I am to see you-," she smiled like the sun at this, to which he could not but smile as well. "Glad as I am, this is a dangerous place."

"I know," she returned with a sigh, drawing back, her eyes lowering, though she smiled again as Elrohir reached for her, catching her hands in his own as he turned and began guiding her back toward the high flets where the other warriors waited. "And for that, I am in need of your forgiveness. But I wished to be near you again, to hear your voice, and-," she looked up at him again, her gaze as plaintive and innocent as a child's. "And I wished to learn your true name."

Elrohir released a deep breath at this, and smiled. "My name is Elrohir," he whispered, and her soft liquid blue eyes grew warm at his name. "Elrohir, the son of Elrond, the son of Eärendil."

"Elrohir-," Calassë breathed softly, and the sound coursed through his soul like the strains of a soft hymn. "Your name is beautiful."

"As you are, Calassë," he murmured.

A soothing warmth pulsed swiftly through his veins as an allurring flush coloring her cheeks, and she ducked her head.

"Oi, What'er we `ere?"

The harsh voice speaking in the Common Tongue, gravelly, and close, shot a shard of alarm through Elrohir's core, jarring him painfully from the sweet cloud within which he and Calassë had been enwrapped as their footsteps drew to a sudden halt. He released her hand and whipped toward the sound, snatching an arrow from his quiver in the same motion, only to have the weapons wrenched fiercely from his hands as two mottled, muscled forms pounced upon him from either side.

Orcs! The forces of Dol Guldur were returning again!

"Calassë, flee!" he shouted, his voice ragged as he grappled with the two snarling creatures who struggled to force him to the ground.

But Calassë did not obey him. Rather, she rushed forward, snatching the arm of the nearest orc, struggling to pull the muscular beast off of him.

The orc, with a howl, turned and struck her hard in the face with the back of his gnarled paw and she tumbled to the earth only to be wrenched upward again, as another orc stomped over her, and snatched her hair in its pinching, merciless grip and lifted her to her feet, a knife's blade touching her throat in a silent threat as his gnarled paw snatched her slender arm.

She shuddered at the touch of the blade, and Elrohir winced for her, his eyes glaring at the bent mottled creature that held her, wishing he was free so that he might wrench the orc's limbs from his body.

"Take care, Elf!" scoffed a ragged voice, scratchy, and obviously female, as the other orcs about brandished their weapons at him, snarling their anger. "Else your little tart dies!"

A scrawny gnarled creature clad in rags, shreds of hair lingering over a patched and ragged scalp had spoken to him. The female orc, armed with a wretched looking blade in each hand, and clearly the leader of this small party, eyed Elrohir with a dark sneer.

He glanced toward Calassë. Tears were upon her face as she studied the faces of the orcs about her, her gaze trained more upon the face of the she-orc who strode back and forth, a grimace of self importance upon her mottled face.

"But you're a pretty one, aren'cha?" the female orc turned toward Elrohir as the several male orcs who surrounded him, stripped his quiver from his back and tossed it roughly away. " `Aven't seen one o' you alive, in a long time. Not since we barely escaped the drowning of Isengard, and found our way across that wretched river to our kin that serve the necromancer beneath the shadow trees." The orc stepped nearer toward Elrohir, and the tip of one of her blades touched him beneath his chin, forcing his face to tip upward, his gaze meeting her coal black eyes as they traveling over him as if surveying a cut of meat.

"What a pretty little toy you are," she purred almost gently, her rancid breath washing over his face. "I could keep you alive if-,"

"Leave him alone, Skessa!" Calassë cried, and the cruel, piercing stare of the female orc shot back to her.

The orc called Skessa sneered darkly at Calassë, baring cruel fangs in a wide mouth as the other blade she held, lifted, softly scraping the side of Calassë's face, drawing a tiny bead of blood as it nicked the line of her jaw.

With a growl of fury, Elrohir twisted his face away from the she-orc's blade and struggled forward, but the two orcs, one on each side of him, snatched his arms in iron fists, and he could not break free.

"Oo `er you?" The orc Calassë had called Skessa demanded harshly. "Ow'd an Elf woman know me?"

Calassë blinked her eyes, tears coming freely now to her cheeks. "It does not matter, let him go!" she cried.

Elrohir gulped hard, seeing the tortured look upon her face. Had these very orcs perhaps, been her captors?

"Tell me `ow you know me, and maybe I will!" the she-orc scoffed.

Calassë's eyes shot toward Elrohir, grief and pleading in her eyes before she glanced again toward the she-orc.

"Kul-izg Burza," she muttered softly. Her eyes dulled of light, met Elrohir's.

Elrohir's heart gave a ragged throb, and his very soul could not help but weep at the abject shame that washed over Calassë's face as Skessa snorted viciously, spittle flying from her lips as she squeeled in laughter, joined soon by cruel laughter of the male orcs. "Little Burza, the star gazer, with flowers in her blood turned `erself into an Elfling, and found `erself a pretty little toy to play with!"

"Now, let him go!" Calassë cried. "Let him returned to his people unharmed, Skessa, I beg you!"

"Stupid Burza!" Skessa shrieked with laughter. "You were always too trusting!" At these words, Skessa glanced toward Elrohir, a murderous gleam in her eye and his heart pounded wildly in his throat as she raised her free blade, ready to slice it down into his body. He would die in a moment. His mind accepted that knowledge numbly. But what of Calassë? His heart wrenched. What would they do to her?

But before the blade could fall however, an angry cry, hardly Calassë's voice, shattered through the trees, and the maiden swatted the harsh blade from beneath her chin with strength that surprised Elrohir as well as the orc that held her captive. Breaking like an angry warg from the orc's hold, Calassë lunged forward, and caught Skessa's fist about the raised blade, and pushed the she-orc harshly back.

Skessa stumbled a pace before she regained her balance, and glared at Calassë with a look of black fury.

"Ukh-latu kraat, âdhn-latu tul!" Calassë wailed. "Narnûl-latu golug!"

"Az-izg lat agh lab golug!" Skessa shrieked back.

With a wild roar, Skessa spun, swinging her blade at Calassë's head, the maiden ducking only in the last instant.

Reaching up, Calassë caught the orc's swinging arm, and shooting again to her feet, she twisted, until Elrohir heard a great crack, and the she-orc screamed, lunging away from Calassë, one arm dangling at her side, bent at an odd angle. The curved blade had dropped to the earth from her open, twitching fingers, and Calassë hurriedly snatched it up.

"Az-latu ta!" Skessa shrieked to her comrades.

"Nar-!" wailed Calassë as the orc upon Elrohir's left side chuckled darkly and shoved away from him to march a space away, the remaining orc catching both Elrohir's arms in a pinching, crushing grip that he could not struggle from as the first orc snatched a great iron blade from one of the smaller male orcs who stood by grinning, and turned to eye Elrohir with a wretched, wicked gaze.

"Az-latu golug rad!" screamed Skessa as she raised her one remaining blade, her burning gaze fixed upon the Elf maiden. But instead of raising the dropped blade she had snatched up to defend herself, Calassë turned away and swung it with all her strength at the orc that held Elrohir in his iron grip. The beast, too surprised to react, could only grunt in shock as the blade flashed over Elrohir's head, slicing with a sickening chunk into the creature's thick throat in the very moment that Skessa, with a shriek of victory, slashed her blade across the Elf maiden's unguarded side, slicing through the maiden's muddied gown.

The beast behind him tumbled away with a dying gurgle, but Elrohir took no note of this as Calassë's wide and startled gaze, met his own, and then her eyes glazed and she crumpled like a fallen doll, to the ground.

The world in that moment, turned into a haze of flame. Thought left him as Elrohir plunged to his feet screaming in mindless fury. He snatched Calassë's fallen blade and swung the curved weapon at Skessa's head, severing it from the she-orc's shoulders in a single blow. The large muscled uruk and the smaller males roared their disapproval at this, and lunged toward him, though they never reached him as several arrows came zipping out of the undergrowth, and struck the snarling creatures, which fell with wild groans, to lie dead and still upon the shadowed grass.

Reality returned then. Pulsing, merciless, his soul crushed beneath its bitter waves. The blackened weapon dropped to the earth as Elrohir's heart tore asunder and a bitter sob wrenched from his lungs.

"Calassë!" Elrohir wailed as he tumbled clumsily to the earth beside the crumpled maiden, scooping his arm beneath her head and tipping her up, his hand brushing furtively over her face. Her eyes were closed. Blood soaked her gown on the side the orc had slashed. But she was breathing. Though shallowly, faintly, she was still breathing.

The cloth of her gown was slit just above the slight curve of her narrow hip, the wound, a deep sliced upon her the pale flesh, visible through the torn cloth.

Scrambling furiously, Elrohir stripped his thick Lórien cloak from his shoulders, and knowing no other recourse, wrenched his own tunic off, stripping it swiftly over his head to press against the wound.

The air brushed chill against his bare chest, but he took no note of it as he clutched her close to him, bending low above her quiet face.

"Calassë, Calassë!" he moaned. "Awaken, I beg you!" And a spark of hope took hold as her eyelids flickered and drew open.

"The blade-, forged in Mordor, I-," she muttered. "I am not strong enough-, not good enough-, Elrohir, I-,"

She shuddered, her head tipped wearily against his bare chest, and Elrohir stiffened at the sudden changed that moved over her. Her once fair skin flickered, as if an unseen flame danced over her, marring the fair flesh, turning it dark and mottled as an orc's skin, even her hair changed, the shimmering gold replaced by ragged patches of black and grey.

Calassë glanced wearily down at her hands, mottled and clawed, and closed her eyes again, gasping. "I remember all that passed from the time I was taken, until I found myself beneath your golden trees. I remember the darkness, and-, my part in it! The poison of the darkness cannot be drawn from my wounds. For I am the poison, my lord! I am the darkness!"

"No, Calassë," he tried to chide gently, though his words were marred by tears.

"Have you not wondered, my fair, gentle lord?" Calassë gasped, pleading with him through eyes dark now as a moonless night. "As you have learned the truth about me, have you not wondered, how I could have been so long a captive in the darkness? I have not been a prisoner of the Evil One for these many centuries uncounted, held in bonds, or dungeons," she sobbed weakly, despair in her voice. "I-, I-, I have been one of them! Narkul-izg narfik golug! Kul-izg uruk! Ulkûrz uruk.!"

"Elrohir!" Celeborn's voice cried from beyond him as the Lord of the Galadhrim, flanked by Haldir and his brothers as well as several other warriors emerged from the shadows of the undergrowth into the clearing behind Elrohir's kneeling form.

"You must go," she breathed softly from the circle of his arms, starting at Celeborn's voice. "You must leave me here to die. I am your enemy, Elrohir! You cannot let Ada see me thus, he will hate me, also!"

"No," he returned, clutching her limp form all the more closely to himself. "Adar loves you as his daughter. And I love you as the sky loves the wind! My heart is in your keeping."

"Ukh-lat kraat, narfik golug!" she sobbed. "Narkul-izg tor! Kul-izg kûf!"

"Hush now, Calassë," he murmured.

Cradled in Elrohir's strong arms, Calassë struggled through her pain to understand why he would not leave her with the slain orcs, changed and misshapen as she was now. Through the haze of her agony, she could see her hands, mottled and twisted as they had been before the clear silver stream so many days before, as the memories of the centuries in Mordor pulsed painfully through her mind, Barad-Dûr, Orthanc, Greta's cruelty, the fair Elf and her small companion, the mercy the Ents had shown her-,

"I am Burza, the orc, I am ugly," she breathed, tipping her head, feeling warm, supple flesh against her cheek, unable to understand why it should bring such pleasure through her pain. "I am no longer beautiful to you."

"You are Calassë, the fairest maiden of Gondolin," Elrohir soothed gently, his voice somewhere above her as his fair face swam in and out of her vision. "You will always be beautiful to me. I will never cease to love you."

She could feel tears pricking her eyes.

"Elrohir-," she breathed, wishing she could speak more as a sweet sense of peace washed through her. He loved her beyond her beauty, beyond all that had befallen her. He loved her. Warm oblivion beckoned to her, sweet light filled her mind.

"Calassë!" Elrohir begged, his voice carrying a harsh note of sudden alarm, "Calassë, stay with me! I beg you!"

But the lights swirled upward in her mind enveloping her, and she fell into oblivion.

...

Ithilwen's slippered feet made no sound as she moved along the pillared portico. The soft whisper of the falls surrounded her, soothing her as she returned to the kitchens with Lord Elrond's breakfast tray, barely touched, she noted sadly. But well she understood the great lord's distress, his daughter upon the edge of death, his youngest son absent, while all about them, the world lay in turmoil, its fate uncertain.

Her head hung down, her eyes lowered as she passed from the pillared corridor into an open bay where a fountain clattered softly.

"Ithilwen,"

Her eyes shot up, her heart catching wildly at the sight of him, seated upon the lip of stone surrounding the clattering water.

"Glorfindel," she murmured, glad of the sight of him as her feet changed their course and moved to where he was. She set the tray down upon a nearby plinth, and dropped to the stone beside her beloved, smoothing her skirts beneath her as she took his hand in her own, and studied his troubled eyes.

"What is it?" she murmured softly, wondering if this quiet distress she saw within his eyes could be traced to the old, unforgotten grief he had spoken of in his sleep not many days before.

"Ai, Ithilwen," he murmured, lifting her hand and kissing her fingertips almost absently before he dropped their clasped hands into his lap with a weary sigh.

"I see grief in your eyes," she continued gently. "Why is it?"

"Ithilwen," he murmured gently, his glance turning upon her, adoring her quietly. "I would not wish to trouble your heart with my pain-,"

"My heart is in your keeping, Glorfindel," she murmured quietly. "Your pain is my own. Will you not speak of it?"

"Truly, beloved, I cannot say why this grief has come to me," he murmured quietly. "I can only say that a part of my heart is bleeding, and in pain, and I cannot say why."

"If perhaps you had another, more worthy woman to love, she would be strong enough to draw away this grief from your heart," Ithilwen murmured softly, casting her eyes down.

Glorfindel's eyes shot up. "Ithilwen!" he gasped. "Why do you speak thusly?"

Ithilwen dropped her eyes, suddenly ashamed. "I should not have-, forgive me-,"

Flustered, she began to rise, only to be drawn back down by Glorfindel's hand as he caught her fingers within his own.

"Please-, stay, Ithilwen," he murmured plaintively.

She sighed, allowing him to draw her down again beside him, her eyes meeting his, her gaze timid and apologetic, though a small smile managed to find its way to her face as he smiled warmly upon her.

"Ithilwen," he murmured softly. "Do not feel needless guilt because you cannot take all the pain of Arda away from me. I love you. I want no other but you. In your love, I have healing. You sooth me as a salve upon a wound, and I would not be without you."

Ithilwen gulped softly. "Do you love me even more than-," But she could not bring herself to finish, seeing the boyish pleading in Glorfindel's eyes.

"Am I a comfort to you as well, Ithilwen?" he asked softly. "Is my presence as soothing to you as yours is to me?"

The question, so plaintive, so pleading, melted Ithilwen's heart, and tears sprung to her eyes. His hands, warm and comforting, cupped her face then, and she tipped her face his shivering in soft delight as his parted lips met her own, the soft caresses of his mouth soothing her to the core of her being.

"Ithilwen," he breathed as he drew back, his breath warm against her face. "I love none but you. Never think yourself unworthy of me."

"Glorfindel," she sighed. And she she went into his arms, burying her face against the golden warmth of his neck.

...

_Translations of the Black Speech: (as well as I could figure it)_

_Kul-izg Burza.- I am Burza._

_Kul-izg-, uruk.- I am an orc._

_Ukh-latu kraat.- You all go away._

_âdhn-latu tul. - you all leave here._

_Narnûl-latu golug.- Do not hurt the Elf._

_Az-izg lat agh lab golug.- I kill you and your Elf._

_Az-latu ta!- You kill him!_

_Az-latu golug rad!- You kill the Elf now!_

_Narkul-izg narfik golug! Kul-izg uruk! Ulkûrz uruk.- I am not a good Elf! I am an orc! An evil orc._

_Ukh-lat kraat, narfik golug. Narkul-izg tor! Kul-izg kûf. - Go away, good elf. I am not beautiful. I am ugly._


	49. Chapter 48

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 48

June 14, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

"My lady, would you care for some food?"

Lalaith looked up from the low log where she sat wearily between Merry and Pippin who were both slouched sleepily against her and into Gamling's eyes where he sat across the fire from her beside his king Éomer whose head was bent in his hands in a brief moment of weariness. Aragorn sat some distance away running a soft cloth reverently over Andúril's blade, lost in contemplative thought. His eye came up at Gamling's soft words, but he merely smiled toward her briefly, and turned his eyes back to his blade, and the quiet thoughts she could see below the surface of his eyes. Beyond his shoulder, she could see Legolas standing, lean and strong as a young tree, his hand upon his bow as he gazed attentively outward, past the circle the many scattered fires made, into the darkness beyond. Gimli was nowhere to be seen, but Lalaith had heard his voice some moments before, chuckling loudly as he traded greetings with a group of young Gondorian soldiers at a nearby fire.

"My lady?" Gamling asked again, fishing in a fat pouch at his side, and withdrawing a fragment of waybread.

"It is not as fine as the lembas of your people," the seasoned soldier from Rohan apologized. "But it will give you needed strength."

"You cannot give me of your own rations," Lalaith protested. "I have my own-,"

"Please," Gamling pleaded, his eyes filled with such imploring, that Lalaith could not help but nod in agreement, and take the proffered bread. Her slight motion stirred Pippin beside her, who fell, with a sleepy snort, into her lap, though the movement did not waken him.

Lalaith smiled upon the sleeping Hobbit, unable to find it within her to awaken him. She simply patted Pippin's shoulder gently, and let him lay, trading a bemused smile with Éomer who lifted his head at the soft noise as Pippin sighed softly and grinned in his sleep.

"Thank you, Lord Gamling," she offered with a nod toward the bearded warrior who returned her thanks with a grin and a nod as she took a bite of the gifted meat.

"Gamling is a man who has made a life of giving without thought for himself," Éomer offered with a grin, lifting a hand and clapping it upon Gamling's shoulder. "It is not in him to find himself unable to offer service to such a great lady as you."

Aragorn looked up at this from where he sat and grinned at her as he, his work finished, slid Andúril back into the sheath with a soft clap, and rested his elbows on his knees, content to watch the words between the Elven maid and the men of Rohan.

"I am not so great as you may think," she smirked quietly.

"There is much talk among the men of you," Gamling continued.

"I supposed as much," Lalaith returned with a small smile. "One woman among nearly six thousand men is certain to be noticed."

"It is said by some, that you are-," Éomer furrowed his brow. "More than you seem to be."

"I am now, no more than you see," Lalaith answered gently. "A simple Elf maiden, and nothing more."

"But were you not born beyond the sea?" Gamling cut in. "The daughter of the-," Gamling furrowed his brow. "Of the gods?" he finished in a softened tone. Pippin stirred in her lap.

Lalaith sighed softly, and glanced downward. "Are we, in the end, not all children of Ilúvatar?" she murmured quietly. "Truly, if your soul is true and honest, then I am in truth, no greater than you."

Gamling dropped his eyes in thoughtfulness at this, and fell silent as Éomer contemplated her in quiet wonder.

Lalaith lifted her eyes then, and found Legolas once more as he gazed out into the darkness beyond the light of the fires, undaunted by the things that prowled there, stalking beyond the sight of the Men, though Lalaith, if she peered at them, could see their eyes in the darkness as they crept and lumbered about the camp just beyond the reach of the light.

She shuddered, and glanced down into Pippin's sleeping face, smiling upon the innocence she saw there as she ran her fingers softly through his thick, honey brown curls.

He stirred at her touch. "Porridge with honey and bannocks, for breakfast, Mum," he muttered in his dreams.

Lalaith smiled. "Of course, darling," she murmured softly, to which Pippin smiled contentedly, shifted softly, and continued dreaming.

"Ho there, I'm back, no need to worry," Gimli's voice interrupted the heavy quiet about them as the Dwarf's boots came tromping near, and he entered the near firelight to plump himself down heavily upon the log beside Merry, jostling the seat enough to shake Merry awake, who sat with a small snort up from Lalaith's shoulder where he had unwittingly left a small spot of drool against the arm of her jerkin.

"Mmm," Merry muttered and rubbed his eyes as Pippin sighed and continued to dream, his head cradled in Lalaith's lap.

"Good to see you getting some rest, young Hobbit," Gimli greeted him companionably, slapping Merry on the shoulder as the Hobbit continued to rub his eyes and Lalaith and Aragorn traded a bemused look.

"We'll be there, soon," Gimli added, snatching a strip of dried meat from the pouch at his side, and gnawing at it with the fervor of a warg pup.

"Where?" Merry queried sleepily.

"The Black Gate," Aragorn cut in, his voice soft, yet bearing power in it as well as all eyes turned upon him.

Gimli's cleared his throat violently before he fell silent.

Lalaith lowered her head at this, and studied Pippin's sleeping face, her fingers still woven through the curled honey colored hair.

"Indeed," she murmured softly, and then fell silent as she sensed his approach her heart soothed as he neared, then felt the warm pressure of Legolas' hand upon the back of her shoulder.

Lalaith drew her hand out of Pippin's curls, and lifted it, finding Legolas' hand where it rested upon her shoulder. Legolas made no sound, but lifted his hand, weaving his warm lean fingers through her own.

He said nothing, but she could sense from his simple touch, the quiet emotions he felt.

Across the fire, she met Aragorn's eyes, and he smiled gently before he sighed and glanced away from her gaze, the weight of duty and of grim need, heavy in his eyes.

...

Elrohir's heart seemed a hollow void pulsing with pain within his chest as he strode back and forth like a restless beast beneath the Mallorn where the healing chambers were perched. Nearby, Celeborn stood, his stance betraying his own inward pain as he leaned heavily upon his arm braced against a young sapling as if overcome by some crippling weakness.

Haldir sat upon a stone, a space away, his face resting wearily upon his fists as he stared at nothing, his eyes deepened with a sorrowing look.

Celebwen, and Niriel, Calassë's friends, stood away some distance with Rumil and Orophin, their countenances grieved, their usually cheerful voices replaced with a heavy silence.

A footfall nearby, a boot upon the leaves of the narrow trail, sounded amplified in the heavy silence. Yet Elrohir could barely bring himself to turn his head toward the young warrior who drew near, his own face written with grim sadness.

"My lord," the Elf murmured softly with a bow, his unshed armor smeared with spatterings of black blood. "This was found near the orcs you and-, our brave lady slew. It is of our people's making."

The young man held out a small pack, the one, Elrohir mutely recalled, that had fallen from Calassë's shoulder in her surprise at seeing him in the forest.

"Yes," he heard himself mutter, his voice a dry, empty whisper as he took the weight of it in his hands. "It is hers."

"By your leave, my lord," the young soldier bowed slightly, and turned away, leaving silence in his wake once again.

"What does it contain?" Celeborn asked wearily as Elrohir dropped heavily to the bottommost step of the twining staircase which led upward to the chambers above.

Elrohir drew in a ragged breath as he tugged the drawstring open,and peered at the contents of Calassë's small pack. A few apples and pears lay atop the small star woven blanket she had been found with on her first day beneath the trees, the small blanket she would never be parted from. And Elrohir found himself beginning to tremble as he reached in, and drew the small silver square of cloth out.

"Her-," he choked softly as he drew it out, and ran his fingers over the sparkling cloth.

"Her blanket," Haldir murmured softly, his voice heavy and weighted with sudden emotion.

"The one she had with her, since her first coming beneath our trees," Celebwen murmured, tears choking her words as Rumil drew near behind her, and caught the maiden's shoulders comfortingly in his hands.

"She clung to it like a child in her first days-," Niriel began before soft sobs drowned her words.

Orophin drew near to Niriel, catching his arm about her waist, and she turned to him, throwing her arms about his neck, and sobbing into his shoulder.

Elrohir dropped his eyes at the maidens' grief. And though he did not outwardly weep as bitterly as they, his heart broken, and ragged, was sobbing in such pain as he had never before felt.

"My lord-,"

At Lothirien's voice, Elrohir lunged to his feet, and spun, seeing the lady poised several steps above him, a great weariness in her own eyes as well.

"The healers have cleaned her wound, and bandaged her as well as they can-,"

"Then she is yet alive?" he begged.

Lothirien sighed, a low weary sigh. "Yes," she murmured. "But she has not woken, and-, her-, appearance is unchanged."

"I care nothing for that, let me see her!" Elrohir grated fiercely before he noted the look of hurt upon Lothirien's face, and ducked his head.

"As you do, we all love her yet, my lord, Elrohir," she breathed softly.

"Forgive me lady," he choked softly. "I should not have spoken so sharply-,"

The touch of a gentle hand upon his shoulder brought his head up, and he studied Lothirien's gentle eyes.

"Lord Elrohir, there is nothing to forgive." Lothirien smiled sadly.

"Please, Lady Lothirien," he murmured his eyes down, his eyelids crushed closed, his breath coming swiftly to his lungs. "I must see Calassë."

Lothirien lifted her eyes and glanced briefly at her husband. Haldir straightened slightly at her gaze and offered her a soft smile which she returned.

"Come." She breathed, and turned, beckoning Elrohir to follow her up the twining steps.

...

About the marching collumn, the land was empty and barren in the wane morning light, the earth blasted and desolate, broken as with a great troll's hammer. The ancient vomit of the BlackMountain, Lalaith knew as she veered Hasufel's head nearer toward Arod's and turned to glance into Legolas' eyes.

His gaze met her own, and a brief smile twitched upon his lips as he reached across the space between them, and took her hand in his own.

He did not speak, though his eyes were intense, yet tender, and Lalaith shivered at the quiet pain within them.

"I love you, Legolas," she breathed.

"And I love you, Lalaith nin," he returned, gulping softly as he did before he turned his eyes away, and glanced beyond her.

"We have reached it," he said aloud, speaking now in the Common Tongue, and nodding.

She turned, and her heart drooped at the stark sight of the great black gate stabbing at the sky as the company passed a ragged shoulder of jutting stone.

"Morrannon," she breathed softly, and Legolas' fingers tightening within her own. "The Black Gate."

...

A brisk wind from the north caught up the many banners of the host arrayed atop the low mounded hill before the great Black gate, snapping them about, the wane sunlight flashing off of them almost as if in defiance of the great power that dwelt beyond the gate, and Lalaith drew in a swift breath where she sat, tense upon Hasufel's back.

Nearby, Aragorn sat upon Brego's back, his own eyes fixed unmovingly upon the silent gate as the black and silver standard of Gondor, clutched within Beregond's leather gauntleted fist, snapped and fluttered in the swift wind where he sat upon his own mount half a space behind the king.

Her heart was racing within her beneath the heavy silence that rested over the armies of Gondor and Rohan. Nothing could be seen upon the teeth of the battlements above the gate. Not even the briefest fragment of a standard fluttered there.

Beside her, so near that his leg brushed hers, Legolas sat upon Arod's back, his face set and somber, his eyes deep in quiet thought. His gaze, as hers, was fixed upon the empty battlements, but Gimli's glance, she could sense, was turned upon her, and she glanced toward the Dwarf who released a low breath at her glance, and offered her a terse nod, his eyes set with a worried look.

She could sense Éomer's presence slightly behind her, his mount stuttering upon his hooves in growing impatience.

"Where are they?" Pippin wondered softly to himself where he sat before Gandalf upon the broad silver back of Shadowfax.

At the Hobbit's soft voice, Aragorn turned a glance toward Pippin, his glance drawn over with a stern look of resolve. Then turning forward, he urged Brego into a sudden trot, Beregond, bearing the black and silver standard, riding beside him. Without spoken command, Lalaith dug her own heels gently into Hasufel's side, and the horse obeyed, as Arod and Shadowfax, as well as Éomer's mount, broke into a hurried trot as well, the wind whipping swiftly past her face as Hasufel galloped across the barren earth, the gate looming ever larger and more sinister above her as the small group drew near to it.

She drew in Hasufel's head at last as the small group stuttered to a stop before a split cleave in the dark wrought iron work upon the face of the gate.

Ever silent the gate stood before them, imposing and stern as if so many thousands of cruel eyes watched from beyond the cold iron.

"Let the Lord of the BlackLand come forth!" Aragorn cried aloud, his voice echoing strangely in the large, empty silence. "Let justice be done upon him!"

His words faded off, dying at last into silence once again, and Lalaith shot a brief glance toward Legolas who returned her look with a shrug, and a brief shake of his head.

But at last, a great creaking split the air, and Lalaith stiffened, Hasufel whinnied slightly, and drew back a step as the massive gate began slowly to creep open until the slate grey sky and the ragged black hills beyond peeked through, and a solitary mounted figure framed in the yellow light beyond, began unhurriedly to saunter through.

In robes of black he was clad, tall and fearsome. His mouth, pale and scarred, was all that was visible beneath his lofty helm, and Lalaith drew in a swift breath. For no orc nor Ringwraith was this, but a living man. His horse was a powerful creature, yet it moved as a beast beneath a hideous burden, and its face was covered with a frightful mask. Beregond's horse, though it kept its place, sidestepped slightly, and uttered a muffled whinny of fear to which the black horse pricked its ears briefly and turned toward the sound, only to be jerked harshly away, by the silent figure upon its back. And on they came until the pale, black clad figure drew his mount to a halt before them, and the great gate boomed shut behind him.

"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome," the masked figure grated. His voice was deep and harsh, his tortured lips, drawn back, revealed rows of cruel, long teeth, trails of blackened saliva seething from between them as he spoke, and smiled, a broad, mocking smile.

None spoke as Sauron's lieutenant surveyed them, his wide mouth twisting into a smirk of disgust.

"Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?" he demanded.

"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless, and accursed," Gandalf shot back.

Sauron's lieutenant snarled at this, but Gandalf continued, undaunted, "Tell you master this: The armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

"Ha, Old Greybeard," Sauron's lieutenant scoffed. "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."

Reaching beneath his robe, he wrenched out a shining sheet of silver, and Lalaith started back, wondering how this small shirt of mithril seemed so familiar to her.

"Frodo!" Pippin hissed, and her memory sparked. She had been wounded then, and had not noted it well, but it had indeed been Frodo's! The shirt that had saved his life from the spear of the cave troll in Moria! But why did this wretched creature have it?

With a low laugh and a shove, Sauron's lieutenant tossed it roughly to Gandalf who caught it in his hands, a look of fearful grief upon his wise face.

"Frodo!" Pippin wailed louder, to which Sauron's lieutenant scoffed aloud.

"Silence," Gandalf demanded.

"No!" Merry cried.

"Silence!" Gandalf ordered again.

"The halfling was dear to thee, I see," the creature's deep voice scoffed. "Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host."

Lalaith's heart wrenched inside of her as beside her, Gimli growled softly beneath his breath, and Legolas, though he held himself staunchly, held a look of quiet rage within his eyes.

"Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain?" Sauron's lieutenant seethed. "And he did, Gandalf. He did."

"What did you do to him, cursed monster?" Lalaith barked suddenly.

And at this, Sauron's lieutenant twisted his head in her direction, an expression of cruel amusement twisting his mangled lips.

"My lady?" he growled, and unseen eyes raked over her. "Long has it been since my master has housed thee as his guest. He shall be pleased to know that thou hast returned to him. Far more fair now, than when thou abandoned his hospitality to dwell among this rabble. That he might find thee again, has been his wish these many long years."

"He'll not hurt her again," Legolas seethed, and shouldered Arod's way forward, though Gandalf held out a hand, staying the Elf's fuming wrath.

"Indeed, my prince?" Sauron's lieutenant scoffed. "I think not. Her ending, I deem, with be filled with more torment than thine."

At this, Aragorn released a low growl of a breath, and urged Brego forward, a look of fire within his somber eyes.

"And who is this?" Sauron's lieutenant demanded, tipping his head at the sound of Brego's hooves upon the crumbled rocks beneath them. "Islidur's heir? It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade-,"

With a sudden growl, Aragorn whipped Anduril from its sheath, and with a whistling blow, severed the head of Sauron's lieutenant cleanly from his shoulders.

The armored beast reared slightly at this as his master's weight tumbled to the ground. Lalaith urged Hasufel forward then, catching the tormented horse's reins in her hand before it could escape.

"I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli muttered behind her as the beast struggled against Lalaith's hold, whinnying sharply in protest and shying away from her unfamiliar touch upon the smooth of its nose.

"I cannot believe it," Aragorn seethed swiveling Brego about to face the others. "I will not. Frodo lives yet, and they shall never touch Lalaith, again. Sauron's twisted words are no more than lies!"

"Lalaith, let `im go, he's as bad as his master-," Gimli began, his words cutting short as the beast's head suddenly sagged wearily at her touch. He grew still, making no movement as she leaned from the saddle, drew the heavy helm from the creature's head, and flung it away.

The horse whickered softly, and nudged her hand affectionately, to which Gimli released a low whistle from his seat behind Legolas.

She glanced up, seeing the eyes of surprised admiration about her, and smiled briefly.

"Doubtless he was stolen as a foal from Rohan," she offered glancing toward Éomer.

"Perhaps," Rohan's king offered with a lift of his brows. "Orcs have often raided herds for the black coated younglings."

Lalaith turned Hasufel's head, and offered the horse's reins into Éomer's hand which he took with a nod and a small smile.

Aragorn released a short breath, the fire in his eyes abating briefly as he agreed, "Then it is fitting that he should be returned to his kin-,"

A great echoing scrape of creaking metal cut his words off, and Lalaith swiveled once again to the gate, her eyes growing round and wide as the gates slowly began to peel open, revealing uncounted hordes of tramping orcs, their cruelly tipped spears like so many gnarled and dead trees, their black ragged banners shot through with a harsh yellow light, unnatural and piercing, which shone from behind them to the southeast.

"Pull back," Aragorn cried as the echoing sound of tramping feet echoed through the widening gate. "Pull back!"

With the others, Lalaith wheeled Hasufel about as Aragorn urged Brego into a sudden gallop back toward the army of Men.

So meager now the armies of Rohan and Gondor seemed gathered beneath their banners catching in the swift wind upon the small knoll as they galloped swiftly back toward the mounded hill where the Men waited, their eyes unsure, and filled with fear as the gates drew ever wider, and the harsh, piercing light came streaming through.

"Hold your ground! Hold your ground!" Aragorn cried out to the men as the horses skidded to a stop before the shifting, frightened ranks of Rohirrim and Gondorians.

"Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!" Aragorn cried as Brego totted to and fro along the line, his voice fierce and strong above the steady tramp of orcs as they spilled out the Black Gate, streaming, like a horde of so many angry ants toward the hill where the Men waited. "I see in your eyes, the same fear that would take the heart of me!"

The harsh, burning light grating on her very skin as the gates grew ever wider as if flames were licking out, straining to snare her in them, and she dared not look at the source of the glaring light, choosing instead to focus her gaze on Aragorn.

"A day may come," Aragorn cried, his eyes filled with fire as he gazed over the men, "when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends, and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day."

The tramp of marching orcs drew ever nearer. Lalaith shuddered slightly.

"An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight!" There was such power in his words, such surety-, despite the odds their small band faced, Aragorn's voice was strong and filled with majesty. In spite of her pounding heart, she could not help but smile. Aragorn, Estel-, her trusted friend of so many years, dear as a brother to her, was indeed who he had been born to be. No longer the boy he was at their first meeting, nor simply the ranger he had been for so long. He was his father's son, the heir of Isildur. He was as he had been born to be, a king of Men. And Lalaith's heart swelled in pride at the thought.

"By all that you hold dear on this good earth," he called out, drawing Brego to a halt before them, "I bid you stand, Men of the West!"

The grating rasp of blades begin drawn echoed over the army of Men, drowning for a brief moment the ever nearing tramp of the orcs as Aragorn, Anduril clenched high in his fist, turned Brego's head to face the oncoming horde, his eyes shining with defiance of the black power that came at them. And Lalaith at last, lifted her eyes into the harsh, piercing light.

Far beyond the open gate, stood a tower. A tower, black and cruel as a jagged blade stabbing the sky in the distance. The harsh light emitted from a great, glaring eye, wreathed in flame enthroned at the top.

"We meet once again, fair Vala child-," a voice, cruel and mocking reverberated in her mind. And a white shard of pain, crippling as a javelin of fire pierced her shoulder where she had been branded so many centuries before, lancing down through her body. Lalaith trembled upon Hasufel's back, clencing her teeth willing herself not to cry out, or fall from the saddle. Now was the moment she had awaited. Now she faced Sauron himself as she had for so long known she must. And she could not give way beneath his strength.

A soft crunch of hooves upon earth sounded beside her, and Arod sidled near as Legolas' hand, warm and soft, cupped her shoulder, and the pain ebbed and eased.

Drawing in a swift breath, Lalaith turned, meeting his eyes with a grateful look.

"That I could have persuaded you to stay behind," he murmured softly, studying the oncoming mass with fire in his eyes as Gimli behind him, brandished his axe and growled softly at the nearing orcs.

She gulped softly and touched a hand to his where it rested upon her shoulder.

"I am here, now, where I must be," she murmured softly, meeting his eyes.

"Indeed," he murmured softly, and gently squeezed her hand. "And I am beside you."


	50. Chapter 49

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 49

June 19, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

_**Believe me if all those_

_endearing young charms_

_which I gaze on so fondly today_

_were to change by tomorrow_

_and fleet in my arms,_

_like fairy gifts fading away_

_thou would'st still be adored_

_as this moment thou art_

_let thy loveliness fade as it will._

_And around the dear ruin_

_each wish of my heart_

_would entwine itself_

_verdantly still..._

...

Elrohir knelt with bowed head beside Calassë's bed, his hand covering her mottled, clawed fingers that rested motionless upon the small silver blanket he had pressed into her motionless hands. She was breathing yet, but the slight motion of it barely moved the coverlet.

She was fading. Like a wilting flower, she was fading. He wished to deny it, but he could not, and his heart broke anew every time he lifted his eyes, and studied her face, still Calassë, though the skin had grown mottled and rough. She was still the maiden he loved, her soul as beautiful as it had ever been.

"Calassë, Calassë-," Elrohir whispered to the darkness as he had countless times in the past hours, his voice weak and void of hope.

But now-, his eyes lifted suddenly as she stirred, and his heart leapt within him as he found her eyes, open, and focused upon him.

"Elrohir-,"

Her voice was weak, but he could still hear Calassë's tones within it, almost music as she spoke his name, and he straightened swiftly, leaning nearer to her, his hand tightening about her own as his other hand touched the dry, ragged hair upon her head. Her eyes-, he swallowed hard as he leaned nearer. Her eyes were unchanged, her innocence as bright and clear within them as ever it had been before.

"Calassë, I am here."

"I am so weary, Elrohir," she sighed, her fingers tightening weakly upon the silver cloth.

"You have been wounded, Calassë, but you will recover," he choked, drawing the silver blanket to her cheek. "You will see."

"No, no," she shook her head, glancing away, her eyes brimming with tears as she pressed her cheek to the blanket like a child. "I can feel the power waning within me, even now. The darkness is too strong-, it does not forgive. I remember what happened, now. I have lived as one of them all these ages, Elrohir. It is too deep in me. I cannot-, The shadow is too strong, Elrohir-," She turned back to him, pleading in her eyes. "This time here, with you-, It was but a brief, sweet dream, and now I am as I was, before-,"

"Living as Sauron's slave was the dream, the nightmare, Calassë!" Elrohir grated furiously, cutting off her words. "It is over now! Return to who you were born to be! You were born in Gondolin, of noble, goodly parents! You had kin, friends!" He cast his eyes about, seeking wildly for something before he snatched desperately upon a thought. "Lord Glorfindel! You knew him. Have you remembered? Surely he was a dear friend, a trusted mentor to you that you would remember his name after all these years. What of him? I promised you I would take you to him again, when the darkness passed. Do you remember Glorfindel, Calassë? Do you remember why you have never forgotten his name?"

"Glorfindel," she sighed as tears slipped down her cheeks, streaking silver lines across the roughened skin. "Would that I could remember him as I remember dear little Eärendil-," she gulped hard.

"My sweet Eärendil is gone away, to where I cannot go." she murmured in a breathless whisper. "And my promise is broken."

"Your promise?" he managed to query, though his voice was hardly his own.

"My last words to my dear little one the night that Gondolin was attacked, were words of promise, that I would see him again when the morning dawned bright. I thought it was fulfilled the morning I found you, the light that lived ever in his eyes, I thought I saw in yours, and I thought you were he. But you are not, and my oath is unfulfilled, for they came, and they took me away from him. And now, I remember all the bitterness, all of it." Her lips trembled softly, a bitter ache in her eyes.

"You were never truly one of them, Calassë," Elrohir breathed softly. "I know you were not. Your heart never forgot who you were in Gondolin, the brave, noble maiden that you were, that you are, still. You may have appeared as they did, but you were never one of them. You will rise from this shadow. I will help you defeat it."

"Ai, Elrohir," her voice was a weak sigh. "I wish I could, for your sake-," she returned. "The shadow will not let me go. I will bend to it, or I will fade. I will not bend-," she gulped weakly, her eyes overbright. "I wish I could stay. I wish I could be beautiful for you."

"You are beautiful to me, Calassë," he moaned. "And I will not let you go. I would never be parted from you-,"

"Elrohir," she soothed, her tone smooth, and gently chiding. "To wish such a thing-, it is as futile as the love Finarfin's son shared with the mortal maiden to whom he lost his heart-,"

"Lord Aegnor's love for the Lady Andreth was not futile, Calassë," he choked brokenly in the darkness.

"But they were torn apart by duty, by war, by a cruel Doom that neither could defeat-," Calassë mourned weakly. "They were never bound, never knew the sweetness that lovers long for. And now he dwells in the Halls of Mandos, while she has flown beyond the stars. Their souls are bereft, and forever parted. He was an Elf, she a mortal and-,"

"Surely Ilúvatar, whose mercy extends beyond our understanding, would not leave them bereft," Elrohir gasped softly. "Surely somewhere they will find each other again. Somewhere beyond the End when Arda is remade, and the Children of Ilúvatar, Elves and Men completed, but not ended, shall dwell together forever, and shall not be sundered again."

"Beyond the ending of Arda," Calassë breathed wearily.

"Or before," Elrohir murmured raggedly. "If Eru wills it."

"Before?" Calassë pleaded. "Can the All Father change the nature of a mortal's fëa? Or of an orc's? Can Eru Himself bring Andreth's soul back from beyond the stars?" Calassë's eyes filled with hopeless tears. "Or the tortured shreds of an orc's soul from the depths of the Abyss?"

Elrohir sighed raggedly at these words. "Your soul will not descend into the Abyss, Calassë, for you are not among those who willfully chose Morgoth's evil," he choked softly. His voice was hardly his own, trembling as he spoke. For every fiber of his being pulsed in pain as his heart tore asunder with every beat.

Calassë swallowed softly at this.

"I will come for you, Calassë," he murmured, his voice soft and broken. "To the very Halls of Mandos I will come, and beg Lord Námo for your release."

"You would come for me?" she asked, her voice breathless and weak, her eyes overbright.

"I will," he returned, his voice soft and broken. "And you will return, as Lord Glorfindel did."

"Glorfindel," she sighed. "I wish I could remember."

She studied the vaulted ceiling of plaited branches above her head with a deep sadness in her eyes.

"Glorfindel-,"

She drew in a deep shuddering breath, and it came out in a sigh. "Elrohir-, "

She drew in a soft breath.

"Elrohir," she whispered, "it will not be much longer-, do not leave me-,"

"I will not leave you, Calassë," he breathed, pleading. "I will stay beside you, my love, until-,"

He could not finish. His voice choked with tears as he curled his arms about her head, buried his face against her cold neck where her pulse beat a slow weakening dirge, and began to weep.

...

_...It is not while beauty_

_and youth are thine own_

_and thy cheek_

_unprofaned by a tear_

_that the fervor and faith_

_of a soul can be known_

_to which time will but_

_make thee more dear._

_No, the heart that has truly loved_

_never forgets_

_but as truly loves_

_on to the close_

_as the sunflower turns_

_on her god when he sets_

_the same look which_

_she'd turned when he rose.**_

...

*Fragments of the story of Aegnor son of Finarfin and Andreth daughter of Boromir of the House of Bëor, can be found in "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth" in Morgoth's Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien and Christopher Tolkien.

** The Irish Song "Endearing Young Charms" . was written by Thomas Moore in 1808 to a tune written almost two centuries earlier by Matthew Locke.


	51. Chapter 50

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 50 part 1

June 27, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

The tramping of orcs' feet throbbed through the very stones beneath her as Lalaith stood beside Gimli and Legolas, watching with lowered eyes as the orcish army encircled the army of Men as a slow, deadly tide.

"How is your shoulder?" Legolas murmured over Gimli's head where the Dwarf stood between them, brandishing his axe and glaring at the snarling tide of orcs. The Elf lifted his hand, brushing it lightly over her back, a caress that sent a chill of pleasure down her spine even through the raw fear that gripped her.

"It still hurts, but it is bearable at least," she returned, turning to him and offering him a reassuring smile. Legolas returned her smile, and let his hand fall once again to the string of his bow.

"Good, that's good," Gimli offered, and she glanced down at him as well, returning the grin that turned up his cheeks behind his thick beard.

Lalaith turned forward then, her jaw tightening as she met Sauron's naked gaze across the vast space between them, the brand upon her shoulder throbbing in time to the marching feet of the orcs as the hordes drew about them, a black oily tide washing about a lone isle in the midst of an angry sea.

"Hrmgh," Gimli humphed softly as he drew in a low breath. "I never thought I'd die fighting beside Elves. And two Elves, at that!"

"What about two friends?" Legolas offered, casting the Dwarf a well humored grin to which Lalaith could not but smile at as well past the throbbing ache upon the back of her shoulder.

Gimli gulped softly, glancing up between Legolas and Lalaith, his eyes shimmering with what appeared to be a brief sheen of wetness.

"Aye," Gimli muttered softly, his voice slightly broken. "I could do that."

...

The candle upon the small table beside Calassë's bed fluttered in the dim shadows as Galadriel opened the door and stepped into the chamber. Nothing but the dancing flame moved within the room, the faint light outlining the two dim figures upon the bed.

Calassë, still as death, lay sleeping beneath the coverlet, her eyes closed, and beside her on the edge of the bed, curled upon the top of the coverlet, lay Elrohir, awake, watching Calassë's every faint breath as he clutched her hand, running his fingers over the mottled knuckles.

"Elrohir," Galadriel soothed, moving near the bed, and touching a hand to Calassë's brow. Though mottled and changed, Calassë's face bore a sweet serenity that seemed to shine through her rough, ragged flesh.

"Grandmother," he returned, his voice hollow and thick with misery. "She is fading."

"I know," Galadriel returned with a sigh, lowering herself to her knees beside the bed, and gathering up Calassë's other hand. She kissed her lips softly against the thick mottled skin that felt surprisingly soft against her lips before she drew back and sighed low.

Elrohir's pain was a palpable thing, lancing through Galadriel as bitterly as a heated blade.

"How is Grandfather?" he asked in a broken voice.

"He sits alone in our study, the veils drawn," she answered quietly, her voice hollow. "It is for him, I think, as painful as when your mother was taken." Galadriel sighed again, helpless.

"As it is for you?" Elrohir murmured, sitting up, and reaching a hand across Calassë to touch his grandmother's hand.

Galadriel glanced across Calassë's sleeping form, the coverlet barely moving with her breath to meet Elrohir's eyes.

"She has become as a daughter, to me, Elrohir," Galadriel whispered. "I love her no less than I love your mother. But-," she reached out, touching a hand to her grandson's face, feeling the taut muscle beneath his jaw. "For you, the pain reaches to the core of your being, I think."

"It does," Elrohir sighed, deep and long. "I love her, grandmother. As I have loved no other."

"Elrohir," Galadriel murmured as she rose and came about the bed to sit beside Elrohir. And Galadriel's heart ached at the pain she saw in his eyes.

"I love her!" he choked again, moving into his grandmother's willing arms like a child seeking comfort. "From our first meeting, her eyes ensnared me, innocent as a child's, but wise as a woman's, too. And as I came to know her truly, and saw the goodness in her, my feelings only grew. And now, I love her as a man loves a woman. I don't- I don't want her to-"

Elrohir did not finish his words.

Galadriel sighed, her hands smoothing over Elrohir's hair as her eyes trailed to Calassë's sleeping face, the maiden's breath faint, and ever, ever, fading. In the quiet shadows, the mottled shade of her skin seemed faded, and Galadriel could see again, the outline of her face unmarred, the maiden of Gondolin she had ever been. Galadriel sighed raggedly, and closed her eyes.

...

An eerie quiet had fallen over the wide vale, over the armies of Gondor and Rohan now that the tramping feet of the numberless orcs had stilled, surrounding them upon their small isle like a black tide.

The orcs faced them, unmoving, hordes upon hordes of snarling creatures, black banners catching the air among them, eyes red and filled with hate.

Lalaith stood beside Gimli, Legolas upon the Dwarf's other side while Aragorn stood a stride before them, his stance tall and undaunted as the heavy silence grew thick upon them.

_Elerrina_

The voice entered her consciousness, soft, and almost soothing, though there was a hissing, darkened undertone beneath the quiet of the voice.

_Young Valië_

Lalaith narrowed her eyes, and drew a step forward, her eyes trained upon the distant blazing eye atop the distant black tower.

Lalaith blinked softly.

Pulling her eyes away from Sauron's burning gaze, she glanced to her side to see Aragorn, her friend having taken several steps forward, as she had. Though he too, was studying her in quiet wonder as if he had also rallied from the dark whisperings of Sauron.

"Lalaith," he murmured before he grinned, reaching out and clapping her shoulder before they both turned back to see the others, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, the small Hobbits. She swallowed softly at the look of quiet worry that was only now fading from Legolas' face.

She smiled, and he returned it.

"We do this, for Frodo," she murmured softly and Aragorn's hand tightened upon her shoulder before his grip dropped away.

"For Frodo," he agreed.

And then, tightening his fists about the hilt of Anduril, he turned, and with a cry upon his lips, broke into a run toward the line of orcs.

Two small shouts went up from behind her, and a moment later, Pippin and Merry flew past her, their legs whirling beneath them as they sprinted after Aragorn.

Fire sprang up within her at the sight of the fearless Hobbits, and tightening her fist about the haft of her bow, she darted after them as a great cry erupted from the others at her back, and the air became filled with the thundering of running feet.

Legolas was at her shoulder in a moment, snatching arrows from his quiver as quickly as she and afforded her a hasty grin as they ran together, loosing their arrows one after another into the surging tide of orcs.

Nearer the black tide of surging orcs drew on, nearer, nearer, until with a mighty crash, as waves upon rock, the armies collided, and Lalaith, after striking down a hunched back, squealing orc found herself face to face with another one, a fat, hairless orc with its nose gouged away, and a scar across one blinded eye.

The beast roared its fury at her, and swung its curved blade, though Lalaith ducked swiftly, and straightened again, shoving her bow into her quiver once again as she snatched forth her two knives, spinning them in her fists as she stabbed the blades home in the creature's unexposed side.

"Lalaith!" Legolas cried, and she glanced in the direction his voice came from. Legolas was a wide space away from her, battle raging between them. His eyes were fixed upon her, fearful at their sudden separation, and he was fighting madly, using his bow as a staff, striking down orcs as he struggled to make his way toward her though the mad swirl of battle that surged ever more between them, shoving them even further apart, and she lost sight of him.

"Legolas!" she screamed in return before she felt a hand suddenly snatch her arm.

"Lalaith!" Aragorn cried at Lalaith's shoulder before spinning away to drive Andúril's point into the throat of a screeching orc that had pounced near her.

"Come, Lalaith, Legolas has Gimli beside him," Aragorn commanded. "Let us watch out for each other."

Lalaith nodded, turning her eyes on the battle nearest her, grateful to have Aragorn at her back. Thought left her as she ducked swinging blades, stabbing and slashing with her knives as wave after wave of orcs, raging and mindless, crashed upon them, and the Men about them. A raging, endless sea upon a stand of rocks. The Men who were flanked about her and Aragorn, Men of Rohan, and of Gondor, fought valiantly, cutting down the orcs about them as swiftly as she. Though as water slowly tears down the rock face it beats against, here and there, a man would fall among his comrades.

How long could this battle last, though they fought with all their strength? The numbers that came at them, seemed endless.

Had Sauron spoken the truth? Lalaith wondered in the back of her mind as orc after orc came at her, hate and loathing in their eyes before she cut them down, one after the other. Were they all indeed doomed? Perhaps, she admitted as she blocked the blow of a howling orc with one blade while she stabbed it through the throat with her other. She had known the battle itself could not be won, when they left Minas Tirith.

To think they could prevail by their own strength, was folly. It was in truth, as futile as fighting back the waves of an angry sea. No matter how many blows she blocked, no matter how many foes fell about her feet, more came. On they came, fresh and full of hate, her shoulder throbbing again, as if flame had engulfed it.

_Lalaith Elerrina_

Sauron's voice once again, came unbidden to her mind.

_Fair young Valië, mighty one, come, come to me, and you need not fear defeat. This battle is folly. You will suffer agony and death if you stay. But I-, I have the power to save you._

As if on a silent command only they could hear, the orcs before her, drew back, their weapons lowered.

_Do you see, my fair young goddess? I can stay their blades if I wish._

Lalaith shuddered, her knives, dripping with black blood, trembling in her fists. "I cannot leave my friends," she muttered aloud.

At her back, Aragorn paused in a brief lull, and turned. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his face filled with worry and wonder.

_Leave them, or die with them. You cannot defeat me._

"Lalaith?"

Aragorn's voice sounded as if it came from across a vast chasm. A chasm over which Lalaith was peering, into the empty blackness of an unspeakable doom.

_Come, young Valië, _the voice soothed_. Leave the weak rabble to their hopeless doom, and come to me._

Lalaith's mind was lost in a fog, Sauron's every word seeming to be a soothing admonition of wisdom. But-,

Lalaith glanced toward Aragorn. He had turned once again away from her, his attention occupied upon the orcs about him, who seemed to have gained a fury they had not possessed before, though the orcs about her, had drawn back.

_Come, fair and mighty one! Leave them to their deaths! Usurpers of power that is not theirs. Unworthy of you, wishing to enslave and subdue you, a _Valië_! _They _are the enemy! _Sauron's voice hissed in her mind.

She swallowed hard, fighting the black rage that seemed to seep into her very soul. The enemy? Who was the enemy? Who sought to usurp power that was not theirs?

Lalaith shuddered, her mind aching as though her soul, blinded and lost, struggled through a mire, to recall-, recall what? Faces floated before her vision even as a black fog clouded her mind. The faces of the Hobbits, dear, honest little friends, faithful even in the darkest depths of Moria-. Gimli, who, beneath his gruffness, was in truth, a soft hearted, steadfast friend-, Boromir, who had loved her enough to die for her-, Gandalf who had sacrificed himself for the sake of their quest, and returned again to see it fulfilled. And Legolas-, Lalaith swallowed hard. He to whom her heart belong, whom she loved above all, who had been at her side, though evil had striven to sunder them. And Aragorn nearest her, whom she had loved as a brother from their first meeting. Was he not-, not her friend? Was he a vile tyrant who wished only to enslave and subdue? She turned her eyes upon him, struggling to see him through the black haze that clouded her thoughts.

He was fighting fiercely now, for-, what? And these Men about her, their cries echoing across the vast chasm beneath her feet-, and Legolas, he to whom her heart's thoughts turned, lost somewhere in this surging tide-, what was the purpose of this struggle, their forces so outweighed? Why come here, with numbers so small as this?

"_We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms_," Éomer's voice resounded in her mind from a time that seemed long ago, when her mind had not been reeling in this mist of darkness as it was now.

"_Not for ourselves_-," Aragorn's voice had returned in answer.

Lalaith's soul caught hold upon these words. She clung to them desperately, and would not let go.

"_Not for ourselves_-," his voice echoed faintly in her mind. "_Not for ourselves_-,"

As a beam of light piercing a black cloud, the words struck home in her heart, and Lalaith lifted her eyes, meeting the gaze of the blazing eye across the distance.

_"Liar_," she breathed softly. And the flame atop the dark tower in the distance, quavered briefly. "_These men, my friends, seek for no other purpose but to serve others. To bring them hope. You are the one who wishes to enslave me, and all of Arda, Sauron. But I am not your slave. And never again, will I be."_

_Come to me! _Sauron's voice raged across the distance. _Or die!_

"The I will die!" Lalaith cried aloud, so fiercely that the orcs swarming about Aragorn stumbled suddenly back in shock, and he, for a brief moment, lowered his sword, gasping in deep breaths of air as he turned a wondering eye upon her.

"You are the enemy, Servant of Morgoth!" she cried, lifting a fisted blade in challenge toward the Black Gates. "And I am your slave no longer!"

"Lalaith!" Aragorn shouted, snatching her shoulder, and spinning her to him, shaking her. "Lalaith! What-?"

His eyes filled her vision, his cherished face, dear as a brother to her, and she snatched upon his arm, gaining strength from his closeness, remembering now the young beardless lad he had been on their first meeting, gentle eyed, eager to please. "Estel!" she cried wildly. "Aragorn, forgive me!"

"Forgive you?" he cried. "There is nothing to forgive! But-, what happened? A moment ago-,"

The orcs, with a howl, were surging back upon them both now, and they both spun away, their blades once again flashing as they drove into the waves of orcs that came at them.

Lalaith gulped, her senses returned to her now, her limbs heavy, her throat grown hot with thirst and emotion. It would not be much longer before she weakened, before an orc found an unguarded spot, and she was crushed beneath the ceaseless waves. Yet Sauron's voice no longer echoed in her mind, the blackness of his words no longer weighed her down. She had faced him, fully as she had known she must. And she had defeated him at last.

And at that thought, she realized a strange thing. Her shoulder no longer pained her. Strange as it was, surrounded by hosts of raging orcs, the brand did not even twinge in the least.

And in the midst of the chaos, with Aragorn flanked all about by the enemy, Lalaith managed a small smile.

A wretched screech of fury rent the air, and her smile dropped away as she spun, seeing over the gate, the black shapes of the Nazgûl upon their mounts swooping near, claws outstretched.

She snatched her bow and an arrow as she shoved her blades back into their sheathes as the claws of the nearest beast reached out, sharp and cruel. The string grew taut against her cheek and she released the arrow, striking the nearing beast in the breast. It screached furiously though it did not change its course, hungering madly for the blood of its prey as on it came, the black of its eyes upon her, the flames of rage burning beneath them. This is how she would die, her mind realized heavily. She would not submit to him, so he would send his servants to crush her.

A flash of gold, a rush of wind-, and suddenly the sight of the winged monster was blocked from her sight by great golden wings as a bright, avian screach filled the air, and Lalaith staggered back into Aragorn's solid frame, gasping at the sight of the great eagle who had dived out of the clouds, and swooped between her and the Nazgûl's mount in the last moments before it struck her, catching the winged beast in the air, and shoving it upward and away as the bird's mighty wings sent a great wind pulsing down upon the earth about her.

"Eagles!" a voice cried from the midst of the mêlée, a voice she knew well, Pippin, his voice bright and filled with hope. "The eagles are coming!"

And even as Men glanced up in hope, orcs in despair, shill cries, bright and long, trembled across the sky, and out of the clouds, dove many more great golden birds, their claws gleaming in the wane light as they began a fierce, airborne battle with the mounts of the Nazgûl.

How-? Lalaith turned again to her task here upon the ground as an orc, furious at this turn, lumbered near, swinging its curved sword.

Lalaith blocked the angry orc's swinging blade, and using her bow as a staff, brought it with a crack into the creature's face. It fell back upon the ground, twitching, though there were more orcs pouncing near, eager to take its place. Aragorn slashed Anduril across the belly of a howling foe before turning to Lalaith's side as the orcs continued to come at them. On the battle continued, tides of orcs about them where they fought upon the island in the midst of the sea of enemies.

Through the Black Gate, Lalaith could see the flame of Sauron's eye upon the black tower while beyond it, against the far horizon, sat Orodruin, a black cone with fire at its crest, red tongues lapping at the slate of the sky.

_Frodo_, Lalaith thought. _Dear Frodo_-,

She could not tell why her heart caught suddenly upon a beat. Why it felt, for a moment, that a dart had pierced through her-, but she knew, somehow, suddenly, that something wrong had happened. And in that moment, the blazing gaze of Sauron darted from her, the beam lashing across the black land to come to rest upon the side of the mountain in the distance. What had changed his gaze? And then, like great, wretched bats, the remaining mounts of the Nazgûl wheeled in the air, abandoning their clash with the eagles, to beat their wings south and east, away from the battle, racing faster than the wind, toward the mountain.

"Frodo," she breathed softly, her heart heavy. And she wondered before the battle surged about her again, and she turned back to her exhausting, bloody task.

A flat faced orc with a hunched back and heavy shoulders lumbered near, its sharpened axe raised to split her skull, though she raised her bow, catching the weapon upon the heavy haft, and twisted it away, flinging the heavy weapon harmlessly to the ground. But the orc with a howl of fury, snatched her bow and wrenched it from her hands, flinging it away where it disappeared into the surging throng of Men and orcs.

Ducking the creature's massive arms, she snatched her knives again into her hands, and plunged them to the hilts in the beast's abdomen. It shrieked and fell forward, writhing to the ground, forcing her back several steps just as a heavy boom shook the hard earth beneath her, causing the loose stones to rattle about her feet.

Aragorn stood nearby, finishing off an armored orc, but he raised his eyes to meet hers as a furious shriek rent the air. Together they turned at the sound, to meet the deep set eyes of the troll that towered above them.

Lalaith's throat tightened at the sight of the troll's vast bulk, and the long sheet of sharpened metal, the massive sword and the great spiked mace it held in its fists.

With a deep rumble in its throat, the troll thundered near raising its sword. Aragorn without glancing at her, snatched her wrist and pushed her behind him before he met the heavy blade of the troll with Andúril, the blades clashing noisily as he fell back a step.

"Aragorn!" she cried as the beast wailed once more and their blades crashed, forcing her friend further back. The beast would kill him!

She darted forward, beneath the troll's spiked mace, ignorant of Aragorn's voice wildly crying out her name as she slashed her knives into the troll's thick hide beneath the plates of metal strapped across its chest. The troll cried out its fury at this, dropping the mace in its hand with a heavy thump and before she could react, she felt a vice grip about her waist as the troll's massive fist snatched her, wrenching her upward with a mighty roar. Her blades, snagging against the troll's armor, were flung from her hands, and clattered to the stony earth as she was swung high into the air, defenseless, her arrows flinging from the quiver, and scattering wildly through the air.

"Lalaith!" Aragorn's voice cried out from below her as the beast continued to battle Gondor's king with its free hand while another voice echoed Aragorn's from a distance away.

"Lalaith!" Legolas' voice screamed out from somwhere nearby as she swung about, helpless in the troll's crushing grip that forced the air from her lungs as stars danced before her eyes.

She caught a brief glimpse of Legolas, an expression of horror upon his face as he fought his way through the surging tide, barely seeing all that passed around him as he struggled to fight his way to her, and Aragorn.

"Lalaith!" he screamed again, but she barely heard. The troll's grip was crushing her all the more tightly as the beast roared, the crashing of its feet vibrating through her limp frame.

Where was Aragorn? She struggled to think as her thoughts became all the more fragmented, her vision blurred, the crescendo of battle becoming a dim echo in her ears. A brief spot of a crimson cloak caught her eyes upon the ground, and she struggled weakly as the troll in whose grip she dangled, like a lifeless doll, lifted its heavy gnarled foot crushed it down upon Aragorn's chest, knocking him to the ground.

The beast roared in fury as Aragorn plunged the blade of his curved Elven knife into the troll's massive foot, but Lalaith knew nothing could be done. How helpless she was, so cursedly helpless! Her lungs burned for air, her vision fading rapidly.

Aragorn-, her friend-, that she could do something-, but the troll's grip was too strong, her lungs were crushed, and her strength was spent.

Legolas her dry lips murmured, though no sound came forth as the last of her strength ebbed from her. Vaguely, she was aware of the troll lifting its massive blade over Aragorn's helpless form as the last of her senses faded.

She felt light, ethereal, even as her feet, bare somehow, felt soft, warm dust beneath them. She was in a cavern, the air blisteringly hot as the scent of brimstone whipped wildly through the air about her though the white gown she found herself clad in, did not whip about her in the fierce wind. She stood upon a thrusting tongue of stone arching out over a river of lava that boiled below her, and upon the very lip of the stone, lay a Hobbit upon his stomach, reach down over the edge toward something below him.

_Sam_-, her thoughts whispered. _Dear Sam-, How long it had been since she had seen his sweet, honest face-, But where was Frodo?_

"Give me your hand!" Sam cried out. "Take my hand!" He strained, grunting, as if reaching desperately for something.

He caught at something, but his shoulders jerked as whatever he reached for, slipped away again.

"No!" he cried, wild desperation in his tone.

Scrambling forward, she knelt at the Hobbit's side, and placed a hand upon his shoulder, though he seemed unaware of her there, beside him. And as she peered over the edge, her heart caught within her.

"Don't you let go," Sam pleaded to the Hobbit dangling by one hand from a jutting crack of stone, a glowing, molten river surging in the depths of the cavern below him. "Don't let go."

Frodo!

"Frodo!" she tried to cry, though no sound came yet still the wide blue eyes of the dangling Hobbit trained on her.

"Lalaith?" Frodo choked.

"Reach!" Sam cried, straining ever closer to Frodo.

"Come, Frodo!" Lalaith added, laying herself flat upon the stone, and reaching down. With his wide, fearful eyes upon hers, Frodo obeyed, and swung his arm up, catching Sam's hand as Lalaith clasped her hand around Frodo's slender wrist, caring nothing for the blood that spouted from the stump of a severed finger as she held onto Frodo.

Far below her, a small circle of gold blinked up at her, floating upon a small, fragment of molten stone. It seemed to gaze at her, hatred and despair seeming to seeth from the metal, the letters carved upon it glittering wildly before the bed of floating stone crack and broke apart, and the ring, Sauron's One Ring, disappeared below the surface of the liquid flames.

Turning her eyes from the surface of the suddenly tempestuous river of fire, Lalaith pulled along with Sam's sturdy strength, straining with all the might between them until they drew Frodo's weakened frame back over the edge of the stone lip and he rolled, gasping, onto the dusty surface of the stone tongue.

"Lalaith!" Frodo gasped as Sam bent attentively over him unaware of Lalaith standing behind, though Frodo's eyes did not leave hers. "Lalaith-, she-, she's here. She helped-,"

"Come on, Mister Frodo, you're seein' things. And we got to get you out of here," Sam answered, his voice rising above the roaring of the rising, boiling fire. And flinging one of Frodo's arms around his neck, he wrenched him up to his feet.

Lalaith moved to help, but then-, a wild light burst in her mind, and she was once again in the troll's grip, limp as before though of a sudden, the grip of the troll loosened, and she tumbled wildly to the ground, landing with a jarring thud that rattled her frame. She hardly noted the pain as she sucked wild draughts of air into her starved, aching lungs, and pushed herself up on her trembling, aching arms.

"Lalaith!" Aragorn gasped roughly, scrambling to her side, and catching her by the shoulders as they both staggered to their feet, barely noting the shuddering of the stone as the wailing troll dropped its massive sword and fled away from them, as the orcs fled screeching, lost now, unmastered.

"Aragorn," she gasped, clinging fiercely to her friend's solid strength. "Frodo and Sam-,"

"Look, Lalaith," he gasped. His arm slipped about her shoulders, his face filled with fierce emotion as their eyes turned toward the black tower where Sauron's eye quavered wildly as its own flamed consumed it. And wonder flooded through her as the tower beneath began to tip and crumbled beneath its own weight, carrying the blazing eye down with it as it went.

The eye seemed to diminish as the tower fell, burning up on its own flame, when suddenly it sparked and faded into nothing only to explode outward in a burst of silent energy, the sound taking a moment to reach them across the vast expanse before an echo of cracking stone and a wave of energy washed over them. Wearied, Lalaith fell back a step, though Aragorn held her up.

Away beyond the mounded hill where they stood, orcs, screeching and wild, struggled to flee as the sound of cracking stone only grew louder. A chasm sliced through the earth between the black hills where the gate stood, cracking the very hills, and bringing the gate down, the high black towers shattering in a deafening cacophony into the widening trench. Fleeing orcs fell, screeching to their deaths as the gulf split, earth caving down into the widening trench that arched around the hill where the Men of Rohan and Gondor stood, leaving them untouched upon the mounded hill.

"Sauron-," she mumbled softly, her legs trembling beneath her as Aragorn hitched her higher. "He is-, gone, and his Ring."

The word shivered through her as Aragorn uttered a soft half laugh even as tears wet his eyes. "Indeed," he murmured softly, at a loss to speak more words.

"Lalaith!" a voice fraught with relief cried out from beside her, and she turned from Aragorn's arm that loosened at Legolas' approach and surrendering her willingly into the arms of her beloved.

Legolas' strong arms circled about her as she fell into his embrace and he pulled her close against himself, the warm scent of trees and growing things against his skin as she buried her face against the warm flesh of his neck.

"Legolas-," she choked as he caught her face in his hands and drew back enough that she could see his jubilant face. "He is gone-, his Ring-, gone."

"And we have won the victory!" he cried, half laughing, though she could see tears upon his cheeks.

"Frodo! Frodo!" Two triumphant little voices cried from nearby, Merry and Pippin, their swords raised in victory as they faced the mountain, and cried out his name, though when the top of the black cone blew upward into the sky, fire vomiting forth only to splash back to earth, slathering the black slopes of the mountain, the faces of the Hobbits fell into disbelief, and sudden, heartbreaking grief.

"Frodo!" Pippin sobbed, falling suddenly to his knees, his cry turned into a mourning gasp.

Lalaith herself shuddered, though her heart would not fall into despair, remembering, if indeed it was a memory, and not a fragmented wish, how Sam and she had drawn Frodo from over the edge of the abyss. Surely-, surely there had been a reason for her being there-, surely they had not been consumed in the fire?

A rush of wind brushed near, a golden shadow darted over her head, and one of the eagles landed lightly upon an open spot of earth, its round eye turned toward Gandalf who drew forth from the crowd and bowed before it, to which the great creature returned a bob of his proud, stern head.

"Twice you have borne me, Gwaihir my friend," Gandalf said with a smile, though his eyes ever glanced south and east toward the mountain, blazing in its death throes. "Thrice shall pay for all, if you are willing. You will not find me a burden much greater than when you bore me from Zirakzigil where I slew the balrog, and where my old life burned away."

The majestic golden eagle drew in a long breath that sounded as a deep sigh, then from his throat, issued a voice, golden and deep, "I would bear you," spoke Gwaihir, "whither you will, even were you made of stone."

"Then come!" Gandalf called. "And let your brother go with us, and some other of your folk who are most swift! For we have need of speed greater than any wind, out matching the wings of the Nazgûl, if we have hope to save the heroes of this great tale from the fires of Orodruin."

"The North Wind blows, but we shall outfly it," said Gwaihir. And as he spoke, he lowered his golden chest nearer to the ground in invitation as Gandalf swung nimbly up, upon his broad, feathered back.

And then, in a rush of air, Gwaihir pounced off of the ground, his great wings outstretched beating fiercely against the air, and he rose swiftly into the sky, crying out in his high avian tongue to the other eagles that circled above. At his call, two of them dipped away from their companions, and joined him, the three beating their wings swiftly toward the great black mountain in the distance as Lalaith drew in a deep sigh, and looked on. Imagining the land, dark and ragged, passing swiftly below them, the wind whipping Gandalf's hair back, hot and swift as they passed over the broken, lifeless vale of Udûn and the wide ragged plain of Gorgoroth speeding beneath their outstretched wings as the mountain drew swiftly nearer until they were faded even from her Elven sight.

...

The shadows within the hastily erected tent were muted and soft where Lalaith knelt beside Pippin, smoothing the last of the two small bedrolls he and Merry had given up, in the hopes that the eagles would not come back with empty claws.

"Could anything so close to the mountain have lived after that great blast?" Pippin wondered quietly, setting a rolled bandage upon the tray at the head of the bed where the water and the precious medicines had been set in hopeful anticipation that they would be needed.

"I do not know," she returned with a sigh. "But surely the Valar would not have abandoned them to such a dreadful fate after all that they have sacrificed. Surely they were mindful of Sam and Frodo, and made a way for their escape." She swallowed softly, and placed a comforting hand upon Pippin's shoulder. "That, at least, is my hope-,"

Her words were cut off by a sudden shout as of many voices from outside the tent. And she and Pippin leapt to their feet as Merry burst through the tent flap, his face eager and bright.

"Eagles, eagles!" he stammered rapidly, his small hand waving frantically skyward. "Eagles! The-, the-, the eagles!"

"The eagles are returning," Legolas spoke softly as he dipped through the tent door, and met Lalaith's eyes, his own gaze growing bright at the sight of her.

"Ahh!" Pippin cried, and plunged out of the tent door after Merry as Lalaith stepped forward, and caught Legolas' hand in her own.

His fingers wove through her own, lean and strong, his firm, warm body close to hers. She shuddered slightly, and he smiled.

"Are Frodo and Sam-," she breathed, catching her breath, not daring to continue.

Legolas' lips drew up in a quiet smile. "Come and see, Lalaith nin," he murmured, and stepped back out the door, drawing her into the light of a full moon, its silver light filling the sky, clear and bright as a black opal specked with unnumbered flecks of starlight as the eagles drew near and circled once, two bearing small limp figures in their talons before they landed in an open space before the tent.

Pippin and Merry dashed forward beneath the shadows of the eagles, their hands lifting eagerly as Gandalf slid from Gwaihir's back, and came toward the eager Hobbits, smiling his understanding at their impatience as he lifted Frodo's limp form out of the eagle's gentle claw. Aragorn with Éomer beside him, came near and lifted Sam from the gently curled talon of the second eagle. The third great bird looked on in approval as his companions willingly surrendered their limp charges to their earth bound allies before at a cry from Gwaihir, the three once again stretched out their powerful wings, and took to the sky again, turning with their companions toward the distant mountains in the north.

Gandalf, with Frodo sagging in his arms, turned toward the tent where Lalaith stood beside Legolas, her heart aching at the ash and dust caking the Hobbits' still bodies.

"Come," she murmured with a gulp as Gandalf hurried forward, his robes swishing about his legs in his haste as Aragorn followed behind. "Bring them in. We had been hoping-," she met Gandalf's eyes with a smile as he passed into the shadows of the tent. "Hoping that we would have need of these."

"And we do," Gandalf returned with a breath of relief as he set Frodo down upon one of the bedrolls.

Lalaith was immediately at Frodo's side, snatching the vial of water from the tray at his head, and moistening a cloth.

"His hand," Gandalf murmured at her side, and she glanced down, a lump of pain tightening in her chest at the blood upon his hands, the severed stump of his finger-,

It had not been a dream. She had been there.

Swallowing hard, she turned swiftly upon the task of washing his mangled hand, taking special care of the bloodied stump.

"Aragorn," she murmured quietly as Aragorn set Sam down upon the low bedroll opposite Frodo, and he turned quietly to her side, taking up Frodo's limp hand, and studying it with a quiet expression before he turned toward the tray at the head of the bed, reaching for the bandaging cloths, and the medicines as Lalaith left him to his task and turned away, focusing her attention upon Sam's quiet face, the low, though steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Dear Sam," she murmured quietly, cupping his round face, and running her thumb affectionately over the ash dusted cheek. "How glad I am to see you again."

...

The eastern sky bore a brush of amber light hinting at the distant morning yet some hours away as Lalaith knelt wearily between the two Hobbits who were still unconscious, though in their sleep, they had both taken a little broth, their breathing already deeper and their color returned.

Lalaith was drawing the last of the ash caked cloths she and Aragorn had cleaned them with, away in a small leather pack. Smouldering fires outside the tent were flickering against its walls. Few had slept that night, the elation of their victory cheering the Men as they sat about the smouldering fires, their unlooked for victory giving release to long stifled emotions. Easy were they to merry laughter as well as long held tears. And plentiful about the fires, were the tales of the bravery of their kin, those who lived yet, and those who had fallen.

Lalaith lifted her eyes as the flap drew aside, and in the wane light, she drew in a quick, sudden breath, her heart catching upon a beat as Legolas' silhouette moved through the door, a cool, sweetly scented breeze wafting in about him, before he let the flap fall shut once again.

"Legolas," she breathed softly, rising to her feet. His mouth curved upward in a mischievous, boyish smile for a brief moment before it faded into a warm, plaintive look of tenderest longing.

"Lalaith," he murmured as he drew near, seeking her hands in the warm shadows. His eyes grew warm as he bent his head, and rested his brow against hers. "Your bow and knives have been found among the fallen orcs. Pippin is keeping them for you."

"I am glad for that," she returned quietly. "Thank you."

A long moment passed, and Lalaith smiled coyly, saying nothing as she sought his eyes through the soft shadows.

"Are you well?" he asked at last. "Are you weary?"

"I am well," she assured him. "We have all of us, taken little rest, but my heart is light. As if a weight has been lifted from it."

"And you are happy?"

"I am," she returned softly. "And you?"

"Very happy," his whispered in the soft darkness.

His arms drew her tenderly to him in the sweet darkness, and she went eagerly into his embrace. His mouth brushed hers in a soft caress before he drew back, his eyes meeting her own as sweet secrets passed between their eyes.

"I promised you we would marry in Imladris in the spring," he whispered.

Lalaith drew in a broken sigh before she spoke. "The winter has faded," she murmured. "And spring has come, at last."

With these words, she circled her arms about his shoulders, and buried her face against his neck. Legolas held her close, and uttered a contented sigh as he pressed his cheek against her hair.

...

Elrohir could not tell what caused him to lift his head suddenly where he lay beside Calassë in the shadows of her room, an arm cast across her as if to keep her spirit from fleeing away. A futile wish, he had confessed to himself, but now, as he stirred beside her, and felt her move softly in response beneath the coverlet, the pulse of her heartbeat stronger now in her throat, he started, and sat up quickly, blinking, startled, in the darkness.

"Calassë-," he hissed softly to the shadows, wondering at the new sensation that had come over his heart. And then he understood. A burden was gone. As if a heavy weight had been lifted from his heart, and his very soul felt lighter, the world, though her room was bathed in soft shadows, seemed brighter, somehow.

The light beyond her shuttered window suggested that dawn was not far off, and he swallowed hard.

"Calassë," he murmured softly, his hand seeking her own as he watched the rising light beyond the shuttered window. "Night has passed. Dawn is coming and something-, something wonderful has-,"

He stopped, startled at the feel of her hand upon her silver blanket that lay upon the coverlet. Her hand, smooth, warm, no longer rough as it had been-,

He jerked toward her, a hard gasp catching in his throat as he saw her now, sleeping in innocent, restful peace, her face fair and unblemished, her hair full and golden, pillowed about her like a shining cloud shot through with rays of sunlight. Her eyes were open now, unfocused, gazing dreamily upward as a soft smile played upon her lips.

"Calassë!" he breathed, touching a hand to her face, marveling at the soft warmth beneath his palm.

She sighed softly, and smiled, nuzzling her face into his palm.

"Mmm," she whispered quietly in her dreams. "Glorfin-,"

She shuddered softly, the faint dream fading from her eyes as they grew bright and focused, turning upon him as a soft breath caught upon her lips.

"Elrohir," she sighed, her breath coming in soft gasps as she pushed herself up, studying his face in wonder, and reaching out for him, like a child, catching his proffered hand. "I have not-, not faded-, I am yet with you-, I-,"

She paused, gasping softly as she caught sight of her hands clasped upon his own.

"Elrohir!" she cried, clutching his hand all the more tightly for reassurance.

Elrohir smiled broadly even as his jaw trembled, and tears pricked his eyes. "What has happened? I am as I was-, and-, the heaviness, the weight of the shadow-, it is gone!"

"Their quest is completed. They were victorious," he murmured, and rose from the bed, though he kept Calassë's hand within his own.

"What has happened?" she queried, turning to push her feet over the side of the bed. She gazed up at him as he towered above her, her shining eyes large and wondering.

"The One Ring is destroyed, and Sauron's power has vanished," Elrohir sighed softly before another thought brushed lightly through his mind, and he smiled again.

"I have something to show you, Calassë. Will you come with me?"

Nodding, Calassë rose, her bare feet, small and delicate, alighting upon the floor. She smiled at him, her eyes following his every movement as he drew up a light dressing robe folded upon a nearby table, and smoothed it over the thin sleeping dress that graced her slender form, before claiming her hand again.

"This shall keep you warm, where we are going," he murmured softly, and she smiled in return.

The light robe hanging loosely about her, shifted slightly about her legs as she clutched his hand tightly, following him trustingly as Elrohir led her through the doorway of her room, and up into the light of the forechamber of his grandparents' talan.

The great room was empty, and peacefully silent as he guided her from the chamber and through an arching doorway that led to an upward spiraling staircase twining round a high branch that rose ever upward, through the high golden green leaves of the forest's roof.

Calassë, her eyes softened with trust, never left him even as the twining staircase broke through the treetops, and ended at last, upon a small platform edged with a silver fluted railing, the canopy of Lothlórien spread about their feet like a shining cloud of green and gold. Cerin Amroth rose beside them, bathed in silver mist, awash in the golden glow of morning, the sun moments from rising above the far horizon.

Calassë blinked in the morning light, and shivered slightly at the soft, sweet wind that blew here, catching at her thick, unbound hair spilling about her fair, flawless shoulders, and the edges of her robe that shimmered about the soft curves of her young body like a nimbus.

"Calassë," he breathed softly drawing her up beside him from the last step, and guiding her near to the silver banister. "Do you see that star?" he murmured, pointing to the far eastern sky.

Her eyes left his own, following his finger where it beckoned to the bright star that hung aloft in the morning sky in the midst of the threads of light.

"It is beautiful, Elrohir," she murmured softly at last, turning her liquid gaze onto his own.

He drew in a low breath and murmured, "That star is Eärendil, Calassë. My grandfather. My father's father aboard his ship, Vingilot, with the Silmaril upon his brow, watching you, even now."

"Eärendil?" she murmured softly, pleading. "My dear little Eärendil?"

"The very same," he breathed quietly, moving to her and touching her hand upon the silver railing. He rested his brow against the sweet scent of her hair as her eyes gazed upon the star, silver tears trailing down her cheeks. "Your oath to him that you would see him again when the morning dawned-, it is fulfilled, Calassë."

A soft shudder moved through her frail body, and Elrohir leaned nearer, drawing her to him as she came willingly into his embrace, crying soft, sweet tears.

"The shadow is gone, and these lands are safe, at last," he murmured softly, touching a hand to the gold of her tresses, his fingers sliding through the warm, silken strands. "I shall take you to Glorfindel, as I have promised, and all your memories of Gondolin of your father and mother, and all that you were, will come again, to you. None will ever harm you again. You shall only ever know joy."

"You have saved me, Elrohir," she breathed quietly. "In more ways than I can ever say."

"As you have saved me, Calassë," he breathed against her hair. "I was incomplete before I met you, and now, here with you, I have found what I have sought, all my life."

Her body was soft and warm, trembling like a leaf against him as she clung to him, and his heart could not contain itself any longer.

"I love you, bright maiden," he whispered breathlessly. "I long to share all that I am, with you. To be your husband, to have you as my wife. To sleep beneath the stars with you in my arms-,"

Calassë's soft body shuddered at these words, and her quiet tears stilled. "Elrohir-," she breathed, her voice ragged, her face turned against his chest.

"Will you be mine, Calassë of Gondolin?" he hissed softly. "Will you dwell with me in the fair vale of Imladris until our time comes to sail into the West, together?"

He touched a hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward toward his before he paused and drew slightly back at the suddenly troubled look that had darkened her face as if she struggled to remember something.

"Ca- Calassë?" he queried gently.

Elrohir's heart quavered within him, and he dropped his eyes, drawing a step back, his eyes fixed upon the silver banister beside him. She had not spoken, and Elrohir's heart clenched if perhaps she did not love him in return. He swallowed.

"Calassë," he breathed softly, his voice a choked whisper. "I wish only for your happiness. If you do not love me in return, do not let your heart be troubled. I- I will be alright. I do not wish for you to-"

"Elrohir-,"

At her soft voice, his words faded into silence as the light of morning rose higher in the sky before a soft hand touched his jaw, and he swallowed, lifting his eyes to meet her own. Her face glowed in the light of the morning sun as the first golden sliver peeked above the horizon, and washed across the treetops of Lothlórien.

He drew in a low sigh, his breath paused in his throat as her fingers tenderly traced the strong line of his jaw.

"My dearest one-,"

She smiled, and her lips trembled softly as she eased nearer to him and breathed, "You have my love, Elrohir."

She was in Elrohir's embrace in a moment, his arms clutching her soft, supple body against his own as he had never held any other woman. Her lips were soft and responsive as his mouth eagerly claimed them, returning Elrohir's silent implorations with a fervent hunger that both surprised and delighted him.

Such yearnings, new and raw and beautiful, stirred within him now, that Elrohir wondered how he had ever lived all the centuries of his life without her. He drank in every detail of her face, the soft flesh warmly and alluringly flushed in pleasure, her open mouth moist and yielding as she ardently returned his deepening caresses, her eyes, her cheeks, the wild pulse beneath the fair flesh of her pale throat, her swift, eager sighs-, All of his life seemed drawn into this one moment, and he knew it was meant to be. The Valar themselves had wished this, had willed their meeting as they had willed the meetings of Melian and Thingol, of Beren and Lúthien, of all the lovers down through all the ages of Arda.

Now he understood why Beren would seek to obtain a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown, why Arwen could so willingly set aside her immortality, or why Lalaith would walk with Legolas into certain danger. Elrohir had been born to love Calassë, and no other. And now, he exulted within himself, he knew she loved him as well. She was his, Elrohir thrilled at the joyful thought. And she always would be.


	52. Chapter 51

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 51

July 6, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

The sun was warm upon her face where Lalaith sat beside Legolas upon a stone bench, in a bright, lush courtyard garden beneath the room where Frodo lay sleeping. The garden was enclosed upon all sides by arching stone pillars, and flanked all about, by green trees and vibrant, flowering vines, bearing blossoms of red and gold. Through arching porticos, the garden continued, a set of stone steps leading up to another enclosed courtyard where the green of the garden continued. Their view here, where they were gathered, gaze through a portico lined with carven pillars, over a stone balustrade, and out over the distant mountains to the east, the sky there, clear now, the haze of grey, sinister clouds not longer scraping at the blue of the sky. Her heart was light and free of care as she rested her head upon Legolas' shoulder, watching the antics of Merry and Pippin in the center of the grassy sward, who had made a game of tossing a handful of three small stones back and forth at each other, laughing as they struggled to keep their stones all aloft at once. Often, one or more of the small stones would drop from their quick hands to the ground. But just as quickly, they would snatch them up, and begin the game again.

Gimli and Aragorn stood nearby, flanking the bench upon which Lalaith sat with Legolas, while Sam, weary but smiling, sat upon a stone bench alone, across the courtyard from her. He smiled at the cries of the other Hobbits, but he did not move, and his face, fresh and rosy in spite of the cuts and scrapes, was pensive. And it would be, Lalaith knew, until Frodo awoke in the room above them, reached by the several stone steps where Gandalf waited for the young Hobbit to awaken.

"Ack! Pippin!" Merry wailed as Pippin distracted as he shot a proud grin toward Lalaith, missed a stone Merry had tossed, struggled to catch it, and in so doing, slapped it away with his snatching palm, and it flitted through the air, landing with a clatter upon the stone tiles at Lalaith's feet.

The gown of soft silver she wore rustled about her as leaned slightly away from Legolas and plucked the stone from the ground, smiling as she studied the smooth round rock against the ivory flesh of her palm, her smooth hands that emerged from the full sleeves of her gown. Her hair, unbound save for a few twined braids, slipped over her shoulder, glimmering in the sunlight that spilled unhindered, over the city, kissing her skin with its soft warmth.

Legolas' hand, once curled about her shoulders, had slipped down her back as she leaned away, and now, he contented himself with straying his fingertips lightly across her back, sending sparks trailing through her flesh from where he touched. She could feel his eyes upon her, the heat of his gaze and she smiled as she straightened and turned to him. And for a long moment, as she drank in the vision of him, she found herself unable to take her eyes off him, his eyes dancing as their gazes met, his hair smooth and golden beneath the sun, the soft silver tunic he wore-, so regal he was, so fair-, and he loved her.

At his shoulder, Gimli ducked his head and grinned broadly at Lalaith's suddenly awed expression, though to his credit he said nothing as Legolas smiled more deeply, as affected by her beauty, she could see, as she was, by his.

"Oi, Lalaith!" Pippin cried, and only then, did her senses register that there were others about.

"Here," she gasped swiftly, flushing at the soft chuckles between Gimli and Aragorn.

She held the stone out toward the youngest Hobbit who grinned, and came forward to claim it, his hand catching the stone from her proffered palm. He moved to turn back to Merry, but a bout of bright laughter from above froze Pippin in his tracks, and his eyes darted up the steps to the doorway through which Gandalf's laughter, mingled with Frodo's clear bright laugh, emerged.

"Frodo's awake!" Pippin gasped, and with that, he and Merry darted away, scrambling up the steps, and throwing open the wooden door as Lalaith and Legolas rose to their feet. Legolas caught Lalaith's hand swiftly in his own as Gimli hurried away, scrambling up the stone steps behind the Hobbits.

"Frodo!" Merry's voice called brightly as they stood, poised in the doorway. Lalaith smiled fleetingly as she, with Legolas a step behind her, slowly mounted the steps, Aragorn moving patiently a step behind Legolas. And then the Hobbits pounced through, their laughter mingling with Frodo's before Gimli reached the doorway, and stepped through, crowing in laughter as Frodo called out his name in greeting.

The last step was beneath her feet, the doorway before her, and as Lalaith moved softly through into the quiet air of the chamber, she found Gandalf's eyes, Gimli beside him, and Merry and Pippin pouncing about on the bed beside Frodo who sat with pillows again his back in the midst of them. His eyes met hers then, his bright blue eyes, moving between her and Legolas who came a step behind, and his gaze grew mute and reverent, no words coming forth from his lips, though his tender eyes spoke volumes.

With Legolas beside her, Lalaith moved to Gimli's shoulder, smiling over Frodo as his eyes once again strayed toward the doorway.

"Aragorn," Frodo called out as Isildur's heir grinned at Frodo's greeting and moved to stand beside Legolas at the foot of the Hobbit's bed.

Behind her, upon the steps, she heard the soft scrape of bare feet, and as Sam paused in the doorway, Lalaith could have wept at the change that came over Frodo's countenance as he looked upon his comrade, his faithful friend. Without Sam, she realized, a warm heaviness settling upon her heart, Frodo would not have triumphed. Their quest would have failed entirely, but for Sam's faithfulness.

Turning, she offered Sam a smile where he stood in the doorway, and beckoned to him.

And to this, Sam grinned shyly, boyishly, and came forward, moving to stand between her and Gimli, blushing softly as her hand came to rest upon his shoulder.

"The Fellowship of the Ring," Gandalf mumbled softly, looking over them, his eyes twinkling in his aged, gentle face.

Merry and Pippin had grown still, kneeling now upon the bed with Frodo between them as Gandalf shifted his weight, and smiled softly, sadly. "Had we dared hope when we set out, that this would be where we would find ourselves once again, our quest fulfilled? Lessened by one of our number, though-,"

Gandalf drew in a low sigh, and Lalaith's eyes fell as Legolas' arm twined gently about her waist.

"Though I do not doubt," Gandalf paused, and Lalaith lifted her eyes, meeting his wise gentle gaze, "that even now, Boromir is with us."

A peaceful silence fell over the room, and Lalaith shrank closer to Legolas' side. A soft breeze stirred then, cool and caressing as it came in through the open window, wafting about Lalaith. A scent caught in her nostrils then, and she knew it. The warm, musky scent she had breathed in when Boromir had come to her in her grief, and held her close in Lórien, and again when he had declared his love for her, and kissed her sweetly, briefly, upon Amon Hen before the uruk-hai had come.

Lalaith-, a voice seemed to whisper upon the wind, a distant breath of a voice, and a soft brush of air smoothed across her shoulder almost as if a hand rested there, for the briefest moment.

"He loved Gondor," Lalaith murmured softly.

"And you," Legolas added with a soft twist of a smile as she turned her head to glance up at him, smiling.

"And both are saved," Aragorn finished quietly before he lowered his eyes in quiet thought.

"Indeed," Gandalf agreed in his warm, gravelly voice. "And he shares in our joy."

Gandalf sighed low, and fell silent then as the soft breeze brushed again past Lalaith, warm fingers of air moving through her hair, before it faded beyond the window.

...

The morning was bright, and the banners of the city caught in the playful wind snapping and clapping as it brushed over the city. All was brighter than before, all was vibrant, and full of hope. Even the birds flitting about in the trees planted here and there, were more lively and bright in their high trilling songs.

Lalaith sighed, contented as she moved along a fair street upon the second level of the city, her fingers woven through Legolas' as Gimli stalked beside them, stroking his beard and staring about him.

What a strange group the three of them made, she thought to herself, casting a glance at Legolas, and seeing by his quiet smirk, that he was thinking her thoughts as well. Two fair Elves, bright and tall, walking hand in hand, and their small, dark, blustering companion who stomped along beside them. More than one curious glance and humored smirk had been cast their way as the three of them strolled together about the streets.

"There is some good stone-work here," Gimli muttered, nudging Lalaith in the arm as he gestured toward the white, towering walls beside them. "But also some that is less good, and the streets could be better contrived."

"Indeed, Gimli?" she murmured, bemused, trading a glance again with Legolas, who smirked, and shook his head as he glanced toward the ground, speaking not at all.

"Mmgh," Gimli returned importantly, and continued to stalk importantly along. "After Aragorn comes into his own, I shall offer him the service of stonewrights of the Mountain, and we will make this a town to be proud of."

"After the King Elessar's coronation, tomorrow?" Lalaith asked, humor in her tone.

"Augh," Gimli grunted, waving a gloved hand dismissively, though a playful spark lit his eyes. He laughed merrily, spatting her arm gently with the back of his hand, his eyes dancing with teasing delight. "After the crown is on his head, and all that tedious nonsense of standing about stiff as a tree, and feigning to be interested in it all is done away with!"

"Gimli!" Lalaith gasped, feigning shock.

"Ah, no, I meant none of that," he laughed, his voice choking slightly. "After the darkness these good folk have passed through, it will be a bright moment to build from."

"My lady!" a boy's voice, breathless, and anxious drew near from behind them, and Lalaith turned, recognizing Bergil's voice as the lad came darting near, gulping in great draughts of air from his swift sprint up the hill. "My lady, you must come quickly to the gate!"

"What is it?" she queried.

"Come, come!" Bergil ordered impatiently, and turned quickly about, beckoning for them to follow as he hurried back the way he had come. Lalaith traded a glance with Legolas before she dropped his hand and snatched up her skirts to follow behind the hasty lad. Her mind cast about what might have caused this great excitement in the lad as Legolas broke into a slow trot beside her as Gimli thumped noisily behind, wondering loudly at the fuss.

"There are fair folk come to Minas Tirith!" Bergil gulped as he led them down the sloping streets. "And Prince Imrahil bid me come find you, for they are asking for you!"

"From where do they hail?" Legolas queried, his grin growing wide as Lalaith and he traded a bright glance.

"They say they have come from far Rivendell," Bergil continued, his voice coming out in a breathless gasp as he led them on down an angled street as it twined about, sloping downward, toward the lowest level. "A tall lord with dark hair led them."

"And what was the name that he gave?" Lalaith called out, struggling to keep pace with the little mortal whose speed was ever quickening.

"He did not say, not to me," Bergil continued over his shoulder as he scurried on, through the wide curving street nearer toward the gate that was not yet visible beyond the high bright houses about them. "But there was another golden haired lord beside him at the head of their company, and two fair ladies with them."

Lalaith shot another hopeful glanced toward Legolas who returned it just as the gate appeared around a corner, the sun, bright in the sky, spilling unhindered down upon the courtyard before the open gate.

She drew to a sudden stop then, her heart bursting in a thrill of happiness as she beheld the company of her kin, regal and golden in the sunlight about them, many mounted upon fair horses, others standing, their eyes lifted in patient curiosity at the sight of the great white city towering above them.

The leader of their company the dark haired lord Bergil had spoke of, stood beside Glorfindel, his back turned toward Lalaith as the two Elven lords conversed with Prince Imrahil.

Glorfindel, bright and tall, saw Lalaith first, his eye lighting in silent greeting. And Miriel, whose auburn hair catching the rays of the sun as she sat upon a silver coated mount, and Ithilwen of Mirkwood who stood at the horse's head stroking its neck, both brightened at the sight of her and waved in greeting which she merrily returned before she lifted her voice, and called out, "Elladan!"

Elladan spun at her voice, his eyes alighting in a shock of sudden joy. And with a few words of leave to Imrahil and Glorfindel, Elladan laughed aloud, and sprang across the courtyard toward her, his robes flying behind him. He caught her up in his strong arms as he reached her where she stood beside Legolas, and swung her off her feet, spinning her about. Their joyful laughter, choked with tears, echoed off the white stones of the city before he set her down, and clasped her shoulders, pushing her back to gaze upon her face.

"We are well met, little cousin!" he laughed, his eyes dancing as he did. "It is good to see you unharmed-," he glanced from her face toward Legolas, his merry countenance taking on a look of deep gratitude. "And in the company of those who love you."

"How fare you, my friend?" Legolas asked, stepping forward now, grinning.

"Very well," Elladan returned, turning briefly from Lalaith to clasp Legolas' arm in a companionable greeting. "And it is good to see you also unscathed, Legolas. I do not doubt that you have both passed through much, and that the tale of it is long, and ends in great triumph."

His words were interrupted by a loud harrumph from behind them, and Elladan smirked softly as he glanced past Lalaith's shoulder toward Gimli who stood back near the corner of the wall, rocking upon his heels, waiting with a lowered glance to be acknowledged.

"And many faithful friends have added to that triumphant tale." Elladan murmured graciously.

"Mmph," Gimli returned with a quick lift of his chin, to which Elladan merely grinned again, and offered the Dwarf a brief nod of his head.

"Come then, my cousin!" Lalaith murmured, reaching for and catching his hands in her own, and raising her voice so that it carried over the group of Elves. "Surely you are all weary from your journey. Let us go find Aragorn. He will be overjoyed to see you. And Lord Faramir, the Steward of the city is a goodly Man and a generous host. He would be pleased to see that rooms are provided for all of you, and food made ready."

"That would please us all," Elladan chuckled warmly, squeezing her hands, his eyes dancing merrily before he glanced once again at Legolas.

"We have brought with us an old comrade of yours, Legolas," he grinned. "I hoped that we might find you, for he has missed you sorely, these past months."

And even as he spoke, as if summoned by a silent voice, a white coated horse clattered forth from among the mounts of the other Elves, fully saddled and bridled, though he bore no rider. His silver tail flicked about in curious wonder, and Lalaith could see gladness shining in his eyes as he gazed upon his long absent master.

"Rana!" Legolas gasped brightly, and strode forward, touching a hand to the horse's nose, who snuffed and snorted in pleasure as he nudged Legolas' shoulder affectionately, then turned his large brown eyes upon Lalaith who lingered behind. Rana's warm, mute glance spoke plainly enough that he waited for her portion of affection as well, and Lalaith smiled.

"Dear Rana," she murmured, gliding forward, and placing a hand upon the horse's smooth neck. "How we have both missed you."

Rana whickered in pleasure, and turned his head to snuffled gently against her shoulder.

"Come," Legolas murmured lightheartedly in her ear before he swung easily into Rana's saddle, then bent down, offering her his hand. "We shall ride him together as we so often did in past days."

"Arod's going to be jealous," Gimli crowed from behind them as Lalaith gladly offered her hand to Legolas, and leapt nimbly up behind him upon the horse's strong back, her skirts gathered beneath her, and her arms clasping tight about his lean waist. To this, Legolas glanced over his shoulder, meeting Lalaith's eyes as they traded a humored glance.

"Come, Lord Gimli," Elladan grinned, clapping a hand upon Gimli's shoulder who glanced dubiously at the Elf's hand upon his shoulder, then raised his eyes to Elladan's appraisingly. "If I might be permitted to have your guidance through this fair city, it would be an honor. For any who befriend and protect Lalaith, have my friendship as well."

Gimli blinked, taken aback for a moment, and for a short space of time, spoke not at all. But as a smile, unfeigned, touched Elladan's face, Gimli grinned broadly, and clapped a leather gloved hand upon Elladan's arm. "Augh, I've already made friends with two Elves. Shouldn't hurt to make friends with another one. Come on."

...

The night was dark with soft shadows of silver and purple, the sky awash with diamond stars as Lalaith sat upon a carved stone bench set in a hollowed nook within the enclosed garden beneath the white walls of the Houses of Healing. The air was cool with the scent of growing things here in this small oasis amid the city of white stone and Lalaith sighed, her heart at ease as she drew in a small sip of wassail before setting her cup down upon a jutting ledge of the wall beside her. Through an arched portico, and over a stone wall, she could see the far line of mountains shadowed against the night sky in the east.

Beyond the ragged line of mountains, no red glow lit the night, no fume of smoke choked the sky. And Lalaith smiled at the sight of it. She could hear Legolas' voice, as well as Elladan's and Glorfindel's beyond another arching passage and up a short flight of stone steps, and she hugged her arms tightly to herself, feeling a swell of sweet desire within her as she listened to the warm tones of his voice as he laughed merrily at something Elladan had said.

"This is a peaceful place," Miriel's voice echoed in the quiet, and Lalaith turned her eyes to gaze at the maiden seated at the other end of the stone bench, leaning contentedly back against the wall behind them. Miriel gazed out into the night sky. The light of the lamp hanging from a wrought iron hook above their heads flitted about in the shadows, catching in the shining, rust colored locks of her hair.

"Peaceful, yes," Lalaith agreed with a sigh. "It is very peaceful. Now."

"Yet only a short time ago, it was not," Ithilwen murmured softly where she stood nearby, her back against a near pillar. She drew a thoughtful sip from her own cup, then stepped near, setting it upon the ledge of the wall beside Lalaith's. "I could see it, as we came up through the levels. There are too many widows in this city. Too many maidens who will never know a man's love. Too many mothers whose sons will not come home. Much sorrow lingers here, yet hope returns, and for that one small blessing, I am glad for these people."

"You have always been gentle hearted, Ithilwen," Lalaith breathed quietly, and reached out, taking the maiden's small hand. "It does not surprise me that you would sense their pain."

Ithilwen shuddered faintly at this, lowered herself to the stone seat, her skirts rustling as she settled between the other two maidens, gazing out the pillared archway and into the night.

"I sense it," Ithilwen murmured softly, her eyes turned down with a brief look of quiet shame. "But I do not understand it in my own self, for I have Glorfindel. Often, I feel selfish in my own happiness. I have the love and devotion of one who adores me, though I know not why."

"We are all three of us, very blessed with goodly men," Miriel whispered, touching a gentle hand to Ithilwen's back, and leaning near as she kissed her friend upon the cheek. Ithilwen smiled.

Companionable silence reigned between the three Elven maidens as they listened quietly to the brotherly laughter between the Elven men above. The light chatter of the Hobbits had stilled, for they had gone off to bed some time before, as Gimli and Gandalf also had.

"Aragorn is not with them," Lalaith heard herself murmur softly after a few moments. "He was glad enough to see Elladan and Lord Glorfindel again, but he has been pensive all evening. And though he spoke briefly of Uncle Elrond, and of Elrohir, he said nothing of Arwen. And he has been gone, since the feast ended."

"Ai, my lady, you do not know?" Miriel murmured, sitting up quickly, and gazing over at her with a worried look in her eye.

"Our lord, Elrond, wished Lord Aragorn to free our lady of her vow to him, so that she might sail west with her kin," Ithilwen returned, laying a gentle hand upon Lalaith's shoulder. "And though grieved, he agreed out of love for her, that she might live for always, as she was born to do. He spoke to her, and set her free the morning you departed. In truth, she was to have sailed into the West before the spring came, but-,"

Ithilwen paused at the look of concern within Lalaith's eyes, and traded a pitying look with Miriel.

"Lord Aragorn spoke naught of this to you, did he?" Miriel queried softly.

"He said nothing-," Lalaith whispered, shaking her head, recalling all that the Fellowship had passed through. Aragorn had never spoken at all of his freeing Arwen from her oath. What quiet sorrow he must have endured all this while, knowing such an act of caring for her, would curse him to a life of loneliness!

"And she has sailed then?" Lalaith murmured in a hollow voice, her heart suddenly grown heavy within her. "That is why she did not come? What of Elrohir? He has gone as well?"

"No, no," Ithilwen cooed softly as she lay a hand upon Lalaith's arm. "She did in truth leave for the Havens. But-," Ithilwen and Miriel again traded a glance, their eyes weighted with mixed emotions. "She turned back. She followed her heart's will, and returned to Imladris, only to fall beneath the power of the growing shadow-,"

"She has since recovered, my lady," Miriel murmured swiftly, allaying the growing look of fear in Lalaith's eyes. "After the passing of Sauron, her strength returned."

"But she has made the choice of Lúthien," Ithilwen whispered softly, her voice falling as a stone from her lips.

"And she is coming," Miriel finished, a tone of resignation in her voice. "She and her father and others of our people journeyed first to the Golden Wood, that they might come together with the kin of her mother and with Lord Elrohir who has been there, these past weeks."

Lalaith blinked, numbed by the news, and dropped her eyes as questions roiled in her mind.

In that moment, a scuffing of boots, as of someone running, drew near, and a shadow appeared, bursting through the arched portico, and skidding swiftly to a stop.

"Lady Lalaith," the young armored guard murmured, offering Lalaith a quick bow, and glancing nervously between the other Elven maidens.

"Welcome, sir," Lalaith offered, a smile drawing up the corners of her lips. "You are one of the night sentinels of the gate?"

"Yes, my lady," he returned, his beardless cheeks flushing beneath his tipped, silver helmet. "There are more of your kin, come to Minas Tirith. Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien, and Celeborn her lord have come, as well as King Thranduil of the Greenwood, and his Queen, Aseaiel. Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, your kinsman, and a host of others, have come as well, my lady. And he has asked for you."

"Uncle Elrond!" Lalaith gasped rising swiftly to her feet as her heart leapt within her. "And Arwen is with him! Ai, I have missed them!"

She began to turn toward the steps up which she could hear the men's voices, when another man's voice merry, and fraught with delight, called teasingly to her in the Elven tongue, "And? Is there any other whom you have missed, these long months, my little cousin, or have you forgotten me entirely?"

The voice near and bright, and spoken in her own tongue, made her spin wildly back, forgetting decorum as she turned, and sprang wildly toward the Elf man who drew near beneath the shadows of the arching pillars, squealing his name as she fairly pounced upon him.

"Elrohir! You could not wait for me to come down to you?"

"Indeed not, Lalaith!" he returned, laughing aloud as he lifted her easily off her feet, then set her down again, smiling broadly upon her as he caught her hands in his.

Lalaith blinked at him through her happy tears, clasping his strong hands in trembling fingers, wondering at the light in his eyes, the glow upon his face.

"You are even now, the little sprite I have ever known, Lalaith. All your great battles and fame have not changed you. Not a wit." He grinned, laughing through the tears that touched his eyes as he pressed a kiss to her brow. "And I am glad of it."

Lalaith laughed softly in return, touching a gentle hand to his face. "But you have changed, cousin. A little," she remarked. "There is a glow about you-,"

Elrohir smiled broadly at this. "You shall understand well enough, in a moment when you meet her."

"Her-?" Lalaith queried as Elrohir turned toward a slight figure adorned in a gown of silver and white, gliding beneath the arching pillars.

"This is Calassë," he murmured reverently as the maiden, slight and fair, drew forward, her eyes lowered, and a flush darkening her pale cheeks.

Lalaith's lips curled up in a pert smile at the softened expression of unveiled adoration that drew itself across her cousin's face as he caught the maiden's slender hand within his own.

"You are Lalaith of Imladris?" the maiden Calassë queried softly, lifting her eyes briefly, before her glance fell again.

Calassë sighed low. "I am glad to meet you. Long have I wished to ask your forgiveness-,"

"Forgiveness?" Lalaith wondered. "What ill could you have done to me, my friend?"

"Ai," Elrohir murmured softly. "It is a long and trying tale. One she told me, upon our journey from the Golden Wood when I spoke of you, to her-," he sighed softly.

"Think no more on it, dear Calassë," Lalaith assured her, catching the maiden's free hand in her own. "For one who is soon to be my kinswoman-," She glanced teasingly to Elrohir who grinned broadly, and ducked his head. "I gladly forgive you, for-," Lalaith laughed softly, waving a hand dismissively. "For whatever it is, that has weighed upon your mind. Do not let it trouble you, any longer."

Calassë lifted her head at these words, and the look of quiet gratitude that lit her face fairly melted Lalaith's heart.

"My lord, Elrohir!" Miriel's voice called from behind as she and Ithilwen drew forward to offer their greetings.

"Miriel! Ithilwen!" Elrohir greeted the maidens enthusiastically, bowing cordially to them. "We are well met! It is good to see you."

"Who is your fair friend, my lord?" Miriel queried.

"This is Calassë, a ward of my grandparents," he offered, his eyes turning upon her with a look of undisguised admiration, to which the other maidens smiled.

"A star shines upon the hour of our meeting," Ithilwen's soft voice was soft with welcome as she greeted Calassë, and took her hand in her own. "I do not think we have ever met, before, though we could be sisters, as alike as we appear. From where do you hail, my lady?"

Calassë blushed lightly at this, and traded a glance with Elrohir. He smiled, and nodded gently, to which she swallowed softly, and in a quiet, timid voice, murmured, "Gondolin."

The answer sent a strange shiver of premonition through her, and Ithilwen dropped the maiden's hand and stepped back a pace, feeling the blood rush from her face.

"Gondolin?" Lalaith and Miriel breathed in unison, to which Elrohir nodded swiftly.

"It is a long tale to tell," he said with a sigh. "But one worth the telling, when the time is right. Calassë is indeed a maiden of Gondolin. And for these past weeks that I have known her, she has wished to find Lord Glorfindel. She remembers some, though not all of her-," he swallowed quietly. "Her past life, and little of Gondolin does she remember, aside from the name of Lord Glorfindel. I do not doubt but that she will remember all, when she meets him."

He turned his gaze upon Ithilwen, and the gentleness in the depths of his eyes smote at her heart. "Is your lord nearby, Lady Ithilwen?"

For a moment, Ithilwen did not speak, hearing only her own heart throbbing in her ears as she studied the fair maiden before her. "You are-, you are she," she breathed heavily. "She of his-, his-,"

She gulped and tried again to speak. "You were-, slain in Gondolin, and are-, reborn, your memories of your past returned now to you?"

Calassë flushed at this, and ducked her head, though Elrohir spoke in her stead. "After a fashion," he replied.

Ithilwen's mind reeled, her heart dashing into thobbing splinters within her as she cast her eyes about, seeking some escape. Any escape.

The young mortal soldier, she could see, had stepped away, mounting the steps that led up to the courtyard where the men sat.

Glorfindel, she cried within her as her breath began to come faster, the shards of her heart pulsing in pain within her. He was to have been hers. Hers alone. But-, she shuddered at the thought. From the night she had awoken in his arms in the Hall of Fire, when she had heard him speaking softly in his sleep, Ithilwen had understood that she was not his first love. She was naught but his second choice. As the Lady Indis had been, to Finwë.

What would she have done, Ithilwen pleaded desperately in her mind, the lady, Indis, were Míriel to have indeed returned to life before Finwë's death, were they three to find themselves suddenly, awkwardly together? Her heart ached at the realization of the answer, and she wished to beat it back, to subject it, and deny it. But she could not. Her love for Glorfindel would not allow it.

She would have loved him enough to set him free. Her fragmented heart wept at the words that breathed through her soul. She would have released him to return to she whom he loved, first.

"Lady Ithilwen?" Elrohir queried, drawing forward, and resting a hand upon her slender shoulder, his words soft, his eyes gentle, as she lifted her gaze to his own, fraught with compassion and concern. "Are you not well?"

"Forgive me, my lord," she offered, clasping his sturdy wrist where it rested upon her shoulder. She smiled bravely, glancing past his shoulder at the maiden Calassë, then up again, into the soft eyes of Elrond's noble son. He loved the maiden. That was clear enough to see. And Ithilwen drew in a shuddering breath, a shard of pity driving through her already tormented soul. Hers was not the only heart that would be broken, tonight.

"Forgive me," she offered again, and with heavy tred, she turned away toward the stone steps where she could hear the young mortal's voice addressing the men. "I shall go, and bring him to you."

...

Glorfindel smiled where he sat, half inclined against a wall where flowering vines clung, swerving up the wall in a lush profusion of open blossoms as he took in the words of the young mortal soldier with a lightened heart.

"My father has arrived?" Elladan asked eagerly, rising to his feet, and snatching up his outer robe where he had hastily flung it upon a stone seat. "And Prince Legolas' parents as well?"

"They have, my lord," the young Man returned as Elladan pulled his robe on.

"Then we shall go down, to them," Elladan grinned merrily. "Lord Glorfindel? Shall you join us?"

Glorfindel rose easily to his feet at the younger lord's bidding. "Ithilwen will wish to see her father, for I do not doubt he has come as one of King Thranduil's guard. I would be pleased to-,"

"Glorfindel-,"

The voice sounding from the steps behind him, was a glad welcome to him, and he turned, drinking in the sight of Ithilwen, her silver skirts caught in one slender hand as she rose with the grace of a water nymph to the crest of the steps. Her golden hair, twined in whorls upon her head caught in the faint dancing of the lamplight, and Glorfindel stood struck with renewed amazement at her fresh beauty.

"May I speak with you, for a brief moment?" Her words were spoken with an quiet timidity which Glorfindel wondered at, yet which he found endearing. The sight of her fair form, her eyes, large and moist with hidden thoughts stirred his blood anew.

"Ai," Elladan sighed with a smirk, trading a humored glance with Legolas at the sight of Glorfindel's affected countenance. "Perhaps you will follow in a few moments then, my lord?"

"Perhaps," he muttered softly, not looking at his friends as Elladan and Legolas turned away, following the Gondorian soldier down the stone steps.

Both Elven men offered a short greeting to Ithilwen as they passed her, but she seemed hardly to notice them. Her gaze was fixed immovably upon Glorfindel as they departed. And as their voices echoed up from below, greeting the other women, and Elrohir, whose voice Glorfindel could hear now, she glided slowly toward him until she stood but a breath away from him. The merry sounds of many feet departing the lower garden came up to him, but Glorfindel hardly noted the sound as he devoured the fair sight of his beloved.

"Ithilwen," he murmured softly, drinking in the soft fragrance of her, his body tingling with a familiar rush of desire at her nearness. "What did you wish to speak-,"

His words were cut off in a soft grunt of surprise as she moved suddenly into his arms, her mouth capturing his in a bold, yet tender caress. It took him but a moment to overcome his shock at her welcome boldness, and he smiled against her questing mouth as he drew her lithe form against himself, eagerly returning her gentle, incessant kisses.

His hands, caught about her slender waist, slid up her back over the smooth fabric of her gown, slipping into the smooth depths of her hair before he drew back again with a contented sigh, and smiled down into her face, though his smile quickly faded to a look of concern, wondering why her eyes seemed so clouded, and listless.

"Forgive me," she breathed, drawing herself quickly out of his embrace once again. "Forgive me, Glorfindel for my weakness. I saw you, tall and bright in the lamplight, and-, I could not help myself-, I wished only to share the tenderness between us one last time before-,"

"One last time before we are wed?" he muttered, chuckling softly, reaching after her, and pulling her playfully against himself once again, seeking to bring cheer to her eyes. "But the date agreed upon is weeks away! Have pity upon me! There is nothing scandalous in kissing your betrothed."

"No, Glorfindel, I beg you!" she hissed, struggling away from him. And startled, he let her go. She stumbled back a pace, and Glorfindel stared in alarm at the ragged agony upon her face.

"Do not cause me any more pain than you must, I beg you," she whispered softly.

"Ithilwen?" he pleaded, reaching after her, and catching her hand in his, which she permitted him to take, but would not return his warm squeeze. "I could never dream of bringing you pain! What is wrong?"

She sighed brokenly, and murmured softly, "I love you, Glorfindel."

His heart warmed at her tender words, and he smiled. "That is hardly a fault, and if it is, I am equally guilty. For I love you as well, Ithilwen."

"Were I to follow my heart," she whispered softly, dropping her eyes, "I would wish to take you and flee from here, that you might never see her, ever. But-," she shook her head swiftly. "I cannot do it. Because I love you. Because you loved her. First."

Glorfindel furrowed his brow and drew in a slow breath. "Ithilwen, I don't understand-,"

"Come," she commanded gently. "You shall understand soon enough." And turning with his hand in hers, she led him away across the green sward of the upper garden, and to the crest of the stone steps.

Her hand was soft within his as she led him down the ledges of carved stone, and as the lower garden came into focus, he saw two figures standing close together beneath the starlight. Elrohir he saw clearly enough. His head was bent low over the maiden whose back was to Glorfindel as she murmured softly, her words bringing a smile of delight to Elrohir's face. The maiden was slender and lithe, thin braids of golden hair twined back upon her head, as free waves of soft gold tumbled down her narrow back. The object they held between them, Glorfindel could see, was a blossom plucked from the vines trailing up the walls. A golden flower. And as Elrohir lifted the flower, tucking it carefully into the maiden's hair, his free hand slipped around her slender waist, drawing her against him, and she laughed.

Glorfindel paused at the base of the steps and stiffened at the sound of her laughter, painful, suppressed memories straining suddenly to the surface of his thoughts. Beside him Ithilwen choked softly at his changed expression, and released his hand. He turned to glance at her, his eyes seeking answers to his sudden questions, but the eyes of his beloved were turned down, away from him. He returned his gaze again to the maiden, and drew a step nearer to her.

...

Lalaith's heart was light and free of care as she glided down through the starlit streets, her arm linked through Legolas' as they with Elladan and Miriel followed the lead of the young mortal soldier toward the gate.

After so many months, at last she would see her uncle again, and Arwen. And Legolas' father and mother, who would soon be her kin, as well as her her kin from the Golden Wood. What a merry time was this! Her joy, she was sure, could not be any fuller.

And then, in a moment, the open courtyard before the gate came into view, and as she scanned the faces of the many Elves gathered there, her breath caught as her gaze alighted upon a face.

Lothirien sat in the midst of a group of Elves from the Golden Wood, a bright smile upon her face as she sat mounted upon the back of a cream white steed, chatting amiably with someone who stood at the horse's head, an Elf man, tall and broad, whose hand clasped the horse's reins, but whose face was hidden from view by the creature's lean, cream colored neck.

"Legolas," she murmured softly. "It is Lothirien."

"Ai, Lady Lothirien," he murmured softly, his voice somber.

"But-," Lalaith hissed softly, "she-, is clearly not marked with grief. I thought you told me-,"

"Lady Lalaith!" Lothirien called suddenly from the crowd. She glanced down at the Elf with whom she had been talking to, and chirped merrily, "Look! It is Lady Lalaith, and Prince Legolas!"

Her guide turned the horse's head at this, guiding the gentle creature carefully, with the lady upon its back, through the crowd, and as they came through the edge of the gathering, he turned the head of the horse so that his face, warm and bright was at last in view, smiling in welcome.

Legolas said nothing as his eyes grew wide, his mouth fallen slightly open in speechless shock. But Lalaith gasped aloud in unexpected joy.

"Haldir!" she cried.

...

Elrohir smiled down upon Calassë where he stood with her beneath the moonlight and the soft hiss of the night wind that brushed over them, thrilling at the merry laugh which fairly danced from her soft lips. That he could make her laugh like this, always!

"It suits you, this golden flower, Calassë," he murmured softly as his hand lingered against Calassë's cheek where he had tucked the green stem of the bright golden flower behind the delicate peak of her ear. "It matches your hair, and the brightness of your spirit."

"Bright because of you, Elrohir," she murmured quietly. "What you have made me into."

"I could not make gold out of iron," he returned with a smile. "Greatness has always been within you, Calassë, and I am blessed to know you. To have you now, as my own, soon to be my bride before the spring has passed into summer."

Calassë blushed at this, her eyes growing moist before a soft scuff of boots upon stone behind her, alerted Elrohir to the presence of another. And he glanced up, swiftly brightening at whom he saw.

"Glorfindel!" Elrohir cried, stepping back from Calassë as he squeezed her hand in a quiet assurance. "At long last, we find you! We are indeed well met!"

Glorfindel grinned at his welcome, striding forward as Calassë turned, and Elrohir proudly gestured to her.

"My lord, may I present, before any more time passes, the fairest maiden ever to grace the shores of these lands, one whom you once knew, Calassë of Gondolin, soon to be my-," Glorfindel met the eyes of the maiden, and Elrohir broke off abruptly, seeing the sudden change in both their faces. Each turned deathly pale. Calassë opened her mouth as if to speak, though no words came out. She took several steps toward Glorfindel, swaying upon her feet as a slender tree caught in a wind.

"Calassë," Glorfindel hissed.

"Glorfindel-," Calassë returned numbly. "My dearest one-, I had forgotten-," Her voice was but a whisper, but the words she spoke sent shards of pain suddenly driving as cruelly as a ragged bladed dagger, into Elrohir's core. But she had called _him_ her dearest!

"You are not a dream, Calassë?" Glorfindel pleaded, his voice growing swiftly ragged. "Not some shadow of my past, come to mock my pain? How did you come to be here, my cherished one? How-?"

Calassë's knees trembled, her body suddenly weak. Elrohir willed himself to move, but could not. Time seemed suddenly distorted and slowed as Glorfindel came forward a step or two, and hesitated. Then, as her knees buckled, Glorfindel caught her and clutched her to himself, burying his face in her hair and held her with such intensity that his hands turned white and mottled.

Glorfindel's touch seemed to break a spell and Calassë gasped suddenly, and began to sob wildly against his neck. Elrohir could not see her face, but he could see Glorfindel's tear streaked one. And it said enough.

All the answers she had sought were clear to him now, Elrohir realized, his core growing hollow, an empty void fraught with pulsing pain as he watched them clinging to one another, both weeping openly now. How could he have missed the signs? No mere friend or mentor Glorfindel had been, but her own lover, lost so long ago, in the fall of Gondolin. Fool he had been, to think otherwise! Glorfindel's name was all she had spoken until Elrohir's coming, memories of him lingering ever upon the back of her conscious mind, ever struggling to rise above the half forgotten glimses of her past. And what, Elrohir pleaded silently within himself, but the fresh agony of a lost lover could have driven Glorfindel to such a hopeless battle as that which he fought with the balrog, despairing of his own life, and no longer wishing to live?

"I despaired of ever finding you again," Glorfindel sobbed unashamedly against her hair, his voice cutting harshly through Elrohir's tortured musings. "But my thoughts of you never ceased. Ever I prayed for you, though my hope was dead. I have never ceased to remember you, Calassë."

"And ever have I remebered you, Glorfindel," Calassë choked. "Ever has my heart been seeking for you, though I understood not, why."

The golden flower he had tucked into her hair had been loosened by the force of Glorfindel's embrace, and the cruel knife blade twisted within Elrohir as he watched the soft flower flutter from her hair, and fall, unnoticed, to the soft grass at her feet.

A soft sob from the shadowed edge of the wall caused Elrohir to lift his heavy head, and the shreds of his heart twisted all the more within him at the sight of Ithilwen, collapsed upon the ground beside a carven stone bench, her fair face buried in her arms upon the stone seat, her golden hair falling in disarray about her as she sobbed out the ragged pain of her own broken heart.

Her quiet weeping alerted Glorfindel and Calassë as well. And shuddering, they drew apart as Glorfindel turned toward Ithilwen, catching Calassë's hand tightly within his own.

"Ithilwen-," Glorfindel breathed, "my sweetest Ithilwen, please-," His ragged voice was fraught with tenderness and concern as he started toward the weeping maiden with Calassë at his side, clutching tightly to his arm.

But what could Glorfindel do, now? Elrohir pleaded silently within his own tormented thoughts. What could any of them do? What would happen to the fair, gentle maiden, Ithilwen? What would happen to him? What would happen to all of them? How could so cruel a trick as this be remedied? They all would suffer.

Tears, not only for himself but for all of them, ran down his face. He could let Calassë go for her own happiness. Surely he could. But that would not save any of them the pain they all would feel. And with these desolate thoughts, a groan of despair wrenched from his throat, and he spun away, striding blindly out of the garden and into the silver star washed streets of the white city, caring not where he went, wishing only to escape the inescapable hopelessness that tore his soul afresh with every step that carried him further away from Calassë; she whom he loved. And would love forever.


	53. Chapter 52

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 52

July 14, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

"Oh, Uncle Elrond, I have missed you, these past months," Lalaith murmured, struggling not to show her tears as Elrond's arms circled about her, and held her close, her head against his sturdy chest, the soft warm, fatherly smell of him filling her nostrils.

"And I you, dearest child," Elrond returned, his voice hardly his own through the tears that clogged his voice. "I have paced nights these past months, unable to sleep for thinking of you, and praying to the Valar for your safety. And to my great joy, they heeded my prayers." He pushed her back slightly, and looked down into her eyes through his smiling, though tearful gaze.

"Your grandmother told me what you saw in her mirror," he said, and touched a hand to her cheek. "All this while, I have harbored a child of the Valar. Though now that I know it, I am not surprised. I always thought your beauty rivaled that of Varda's."

Lalaith smiled at his words, and dropped her head as Elrond lay a gentle kiss upon her fair brow.

"Lord Elrond!"

The frantic voice of Glorfindel echoed across the courtyard before the gate of Minas Tirith, and in the quiet of the night, sounded amplified as the Elves lifted their heads toward the golden haired Elf who strode forward, the hands of two Elf maidens clutched in each of his own.

Lalaith wondered at the tears upon Ithilwen's cheeks and her troubled eyes as if she had only just been weeping as she clutched tightly to Glorfindel's right hand, her face leaning wearily upon the Elf lord's sturdy shoulder.

And Lalaith wondered also at the intensity with which Glorfindel held the hand of Calassë, the maiden she had met only minutes before in Elrohir's merry company. She was his newly betrothed, Lalaith recalled, though she clung now, with childish possessiveness to Glorfindel's other arm.

Lalaith furrowed her brow, wondering at this strange new puzzle.

"What is it, my lord, Glorfindel?" Elrond asked, his voice caring a note of alarm in it at the frantic pain upon Glorfindel's face as he drew back, and Legolas left his parents where Thranduil and Asaiel stood a short distance away. He drew near, claiming Lalaith's hand within his own, a look of concern on his face as he listened to Glorfindel's hurried words.

"Where is Elrohir? Has he come down to you?" Glorfindel pleaded. "We must speak with him."

"No, he has not," Elrond returned, trading a questioning glance with Lalaith and Legolas, though both shook their heads.

"We thought he was with you," Lalaith offered softly.

"Would that he were," Calassë murmured, her eyes cast down and troubled. "But he-, when I-, when we-," she sighed brokenly, and finished amid quiet tears, "he left us-,"

Her words trailed off as she glanced guiltily away.

"In any case," Glorfindel sighed swiftly, "We must find him. And soon. There is something he must know."

...

The sun was warm and bright upon his face, the silver and black banners about the pinnacle of stone slithering swiftly through the eager morning wind that washed across the jutting spur of the great mountain.

Elrohir did not heed the eager crowd about him as he stood at the balustrade, looking over the city that fell away beneath him, and the open plain beyond it. This was indeed a beautiful land, and his eyes gazed over it hungrily as if seeking for something lost, something that would ease the ragged pain of his heart broken into painful shards within his chest.

"My lord?"

Elrohir glanced down at his hands, his firm, strong hands that had oft wielded blade and bow against his enemies. Now, they lay resting upon the balustrade, weak, trembling a little.

Calassë-, his shattered heart breathed. Calassë. She was lost to him. And the pain-, the sheer agony that ripped through his soul anew as he thought about the tragic irony, the interweaving muddle of her ancient love with Glorfindel mingle now with his heart, and with poor, gentle Ithilwen's. Ithilwen's pain above all, made his very core to tremble in misery as he thought of the poor maiden, bereft and alone, the rift in her heart beyond repair, as his was.

"My lord?" the voice, nearer now, caused him to at last lift his head, and he fought to put a passably pleasant expression on his face as he turned to face a young mortal maiden who had drawn away from the rest of the crowd, and stood smiling at him, a look of curious greeting upon her face.

"Good day to you, my lady," he offered, turning fully about now, and offering her a bow.

"Good day to you as well, my lord," she murmured in return, brushing back a long lock of curling yellow hair that had strayed before her face, soft hazel eyes, like new leather, dancing above her smiling mouth.

She was of noble blood, Elrohir guessed, for she was clad in a fine silken gown of warm yellow, her visage and bearing as of one who was high born, as if she were a tiny fragment of the sun, herself. Yet her eyes were not proud. Her features were delicate and finely drawn though her skin was a shade darker than he would have guessed of a maiden of her class as if she spent much time in the sun, and her delicate little nose was sprinkled over with a light scattering of freckles.

She drew in a soft little sigh, studying his features, a glance of curiosity upon her face. Elrohir could see that she sensed something to be amiss with him, and he was grateful when instead of speaking on his melancholy, she smiled again, and pertly stated, "You are one of the Eldar, my lord."

"I am, my lady," he returned evenly.

The maiden smiled politely, though her brow furrowed at the heaviness within his voice.

Elrohir sighed and turned his eyes away from the pert little maiden as he glanced through the crowd of mortals to the shadowed entrance to the high battlements where the path from the high pinnacle led down through the heart of the rocky outcropping. There his kin stood clad in silver and white, the white and gold banners of Imladris, and of the realms of Lothlórien and of Eryn Lasgalen catching in the dancing wind.

He had not seen any of them since his tragic realization the night before, and had instead chosen to stalk blindly through the streets until dawn, lost and alone in his measureless grief until the crowds mounting the streets to the Citadel had drawn the heartbroken Elf along with them. He both wished to be here, and wished to be gone, for upon this day, the hand of his sister would be placed in Aragorn's hand, and that, if nothing else, kept him here.

He could see his sister where Arwen stood near the back beside their father. She held one of the banners in her own hands, her face slightly downturned, though glowing with anticipation and Elrohir swallowed hard as his eyes studied his father's expression. Elrond's hand was upon Arwen's shoulders, and his face bore the look of one resigned. This was costing his father greatly, Elrohir understood, and he ducked his eyes. Elrond was behaving most admirably though, he admitted to himself, where he could have grown embittered and miserable. Now and again he would cast a smile of reluctant encouragement at his daughter. And Elrohir wished he could go to her, as well. He wished he could slip his arm teasingly about her shoulders, and whisper his blessings into her ear as she grinned pertly beneath the curve of his arm. But he could not. His heart was too heavy. And he could see Glorfindel tall and golden, standing a step behind his father. He knew he could not bear the great lord any ill will, for what was his crime? He had merely won Calassë's heart first. But to see him, with Calassë upon his arm as Elrohir did not doubt she was though he could not see her for the crowd, he would lose his hold upon his already precarious emotions, and he did not desire her pity. He could not endure to have her see him so broken.

Taking his troubled thoughts from the golden haired lord, his eyes trailed toward the fore of the gathering where Legolas stood, tall and regal, a circlet of woven silver upon his brow. And Lalaith stood at his side, clad in a white gown that shimmered in the sun. A silver circlet adorned her fair brow as well, marking the maiden as one of the royalty of the green wood of Eryn Lasgalen, no longer Mirkwood now that the shadow had been driven out. Like a queen Lalaith stood beside her betrothed, and Elrohir could have wept at her beauty, and her happiness.

All was as it should be, Elrohir sighed. For everyone else but for him and poor tender hearted Ithilwen.

"My lord?" the voice of the pert little mortal maiden shook him again from his thoughts, and he glanced down at her, a tense, worried expression behind her glowing smile. "What is your name?"

Elrohir sighed at the girl's innocent curiosity, smiled patiently, and murmured, "I am called Elrohir."

The girl's brows raised in surprised awe. "Lord Elrohir? The younger of Lord Elrond's mighty sons?" she breathed.

Elrohir grinned wearily and nodded. "Though I would hardly call us mighty," he muttered softly.

"Forgive my awe, my lord," the maiden returned with an apologetic smile. "I have been taught of you and your father's house from my childhood. My name is Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil of whom I am sure you have heard, is my father."

"Indeed?" he asked, straightening slightly, and studying the maiden more closely now. "Why then do you linger here upon the edge of the crowd?"

She sighed softly, eying him with an appraising look. "Why do you?"

Elrohir glanced away at this, releasing a heavy breath. "I-, I, uh-,"

"My lord," the maiden's voice brought his head up again, and he glanced at her, seeing kindness in her eyes, and discernment, and gentle wisdom belying her young years.

"I am more used to open spaces, and the waves of the sea," she offered gently, as if she sensed his discomfort at her inquiry, and understood his reluctance. "I am a rather wild maiden, or so my father says. Rough I suppose, for a girl of my birth, for I would rather be upon the back of my horse, straddle legged and barefoot with my gowns gathered about my knees, riding in the surf or upon the grasses of the plains, forgetting that I am a princess."

She grinned unashamedly and with a small shrug of her narrow shoulders lightly finished, "I am unused to such crowds as this."

Elrohir smiled upon the maiden, a swell of gratitude rising above the torn shards of his heart at her bold, unabashed confession, and her quiet, unspoken understanding at his own silence.

"Then perhaps we are good company for one another, you and I," he offered with a short bow of his head, and she smiled.

"Perhaps," she returned with an endearingly demure curtsey, graceful and poised for all her admissions of wildness and roughness.

A reverent hush had fallen over the crowd about them, and Elrohir with Lothiriel at his side, turned their gazes toward Aragorn who stood upon the crest of the stone steps, his midnight blue cloak flowing down behind him, paused in a weighted quiet. Gandalf, standing before him, drew with measured care, the crown of the Kings of Gondor from the cushion which Gimli the Dwarf held, and lifted it aloft.

Elrohir swallowed stiffly. At his side, Lothiriel sighed softly, but aside from that gentle sound, there was no noise. Even the rippling of flags had stilled in the calmed wind as Gandalf gently lowered the crown down upon Aragorn's dark hair.

"Now come the days of the king!" he called over the throng, his voice carrying easily through the quiet air. He let the crown rest, and stepped back, offering the crowned king a smile of encouragement.

"May they be blest while the thrones of the Valar endure," the wizard murmured gently.

And with these words, Aragorn rose the last step. His shoulders heaved with a deep sigh, and he turned to face the people at last.

Lothiriel joined in the applause with the others of the crowd as Elrohir looked on, glad for their happiness, but unable to share in their joy. The maiden at his side cheered their new king along with the others, but a moment later Elrohir's eyes darted to her in shock as a shrill whistle erupted from her lips, bringing the heads of several others about to bear upon them in surprise.

"Ah, oh," Lothiriel muttered softly, seeing the gazes of the others, and turning to glance at Elrohir's shocked expression. "Ah, forgive me. I forgot myself, I-,"

She cleared her throat, gazing over the faces of the folk about her, who were frowning, though in a most bemused way at the free-spirited maiden before they turned forward once again, for Aragorn had begun to speak.

"This day does not belong to one man," Aragorn called out as the cheering died. "But to all. Let us rebuild this world that we may share in the days of peace."

The cheering rose again, and Lothiriel laughed amid her clapping as soft, pink flower petals, flung from the higher bulwarks of the hall, floated down over the crowd. She reached her hands outward, catching a handful of petals, like a small child might, and glanced, as if for approval, toward Elrohir who offered her a reluctant smile as the crowd once again stilled, and Aragorn began softly, to sing.

"Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"

"Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come," Lothiriel translated softly to herself as she opened her palms, and let the breezes lift the petals up and away again, floating them over the side of the balustrade, down upon the city below. "In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

"You speak the tongue of the Elves, my lady?" Elrohir murmured softly, for the maiden had only spoken the Common Tongue to him all the while.

Lothiriel ducked her head at this, her cheeks coloring prettily. "A little," she offered softly and brokenly in his own tongue. "My father taught me."

"You speak well," he returned.

She shrugged again, her blush only darkening. "Thank you, my lord."

The crowd had grown hushed again, for Aragorn was drawing near to the Elves, down the wide aisle before the White Tree, blossoming now, where it had not, before.

"What is happening?" Lothiriel asked at his side. "The king is no longer on the steps."

"He is coming down now, to greet the people, to pay respect to his allies, the Rohirrim, and the Elves."

With a slight, impatient huff, Lothiriel clambered swiftly upon a stone seat beside the balustrade, giving herself a wider view over the crowd, her head coming even now, with Elrohir's

All about Aragorn bowed as he came, the Steward, Faramir, and the fair lady clad in yellow at his side, Éowyn she must be, the brave shield maiden of Rohan, who had slain the Witch King.

Beside him, Elrohir felt Lothiriel suddenly stiffen, and her hand snatched suddenly upon his shoulder as Éomer drew forward from the ranks of his men, his cloak drawn about his broad shoulders, his eyes stern though gentle as he bowed at Aragorn's passing. The king of Gondor returned Rohan's king a bow of respect in turn. Lothiriel drew in a swift and sudden breath.

"Who is that fine-, that fine-?"

"That noble lord?" Elrohir asked, noting the sudden breathlessness of her voice. "He is Éomer, my lady,"

"Ah," Lothiriel murmured softly, contentedly. "Éomer," she repeated softly. "The king of Rohan?"

"Yes," Elrohir added.

"My father knows him," she breathed softly. "He spoke of him to me upon my arrival from Dol Amroth with my ladies. I did not know he was so young. And yet so-, so-,"

Lothiriel uttered a low sigh. "So kingly," she murmured reverently at last, her eyes fixed almost worshipfully upon the man. And a soft, contented smile came to her lips.

Elrohir could only purse his lips and drop his eyes at this. His heart wrenching all the more. All about him, in this bright new world, joy was springing, and hearts were growing warm in the light of the new hope that bathed them as sunlight upon new spring flowers. But what hope was there for him?

...

Lalaith drew in a long breath as Aragorn approached. Her comrade, her trusted friend, no longer clad in the garb of a ranger, but of a king.

As he drew nearer, she and Legolas, side by side, stepped toward him with the rest of their people, and stopped before, him, their eyes exchanging silent looks of greeting and triumph before Aragorn turned to Lalaith, and reached out, touching her face gently.

"My cherished cousin," he murmured softly, leaning near, and pressing his brow to her own. "As a sister to me you have always been."

"I wish you joy, my dearest Estel," she breathed.

He smiled, softly, sadly at this, and Lalaith released a soft breath at his expression, understanding his hidden thoughts. Soon, soon, she promised herself.

"And I wish you joy, Lalaith," he murmured at last. "As I have since our first meeting."

With that, he drew back, his eyes shining with wetness before he turned now to Legolas. The two men stood before one another for a long moment, a gaze of understanding passing between them before Aragorn reached out, and clasped the Elf's shoulder. Legolas returned the greeting, neither speaking with more than their eyes.

"Hannon le," Aragorn said at last.

And though Legolas did not speak in return, he gestured with his glance toward the Elves behind them, and Aragorn turned.

Lalaith's heart caught within her as she glanced between Arwen as she slowly peered out from behind the banner within her hands, and Aragorn as his gaze grew wide at the sight of her, his breath stilling in reverent astonishment within his throat.

"She did not sail as you thought," Lalaith breathed softly, and to her words, Aragorn neither spoke nor glanced toward her, though he drew in a deepening sigh.

Lalaith turned, clasping Legolas' hand as the king of Gondor and the Elf maiden drew nearer to each other. Legolas glanced toward her as she did, and smiled, weaving his warm, lean fingers through her own.

Aragorn and Arwen drew nearer together, neither speaking as they paused before each other, and Aragorn drew the banner out of her hands, setting it into the eager hands of a young mortal woman who stood by. Lalaith blinked briefly at a figure beyond her shoulder, his face only just visible above the heads of the mortals in the crowd. His eyes were upon Aragorn and Arwen, his gaze heavy, though a sad smile managed to tug upon the corners of his mouth as he gazed upon his sister. Lalaith sighed low, her breath one of relief. Elrohir had indeed come, as they all had hoped.

...

Silence lingered over the wind swept pinnacle as Elrohir, with heavy eyes, watched Arwen as she bowed her head before the king. Before her, Aragorn, touched her chin with gentle reverence, tipping her face up to meet his own. And for a brief moment that lasted the space of an eternity, their eyes held each other. The shards of his heart wrenched within him as his mind recalled the morning Calassë had awakened. The morning he had taken her into his arms and-, The memory, achingly sweet, was shattered when Aragorn dipped his head, and caught Arwen's mouth in a sudden kiss.

Bright laughter broke into enthusiastic applause as Aragorn scooped up his beloved, and spun about with her in his arms. But Elrohir ducked his eyes, crushing his eyelids shut. He wished to be happy for his sister. Indeed he was, but the unbridled joy that fairly glowed from the beings of the two reunited lovers, only brought his own wretched state more starkly to the fore of his thoughts. His very knees quavered from the pain.

"My lord?" Lothiriel queried gently, her soft hand resting comfortingly upon his arm. "Are you well?"

At the maiden's worried gesture, Elrohir shuddered, and opened his eyes, drawing what strength he could from the girl's gentle touch. He put a brave expression upon his face, and lifted his gaze to the maiden, smiling in assurance, though he was certain she could see the raw agony in his eyes.

"I am well enough, my lady, do not worry-,"

"But-, but my lord-," she offered, her voice sweet and sympathetic. She pursed her lips, her eyes unsure.

"My friends," Aragorn's voice rose above the softly murmuring crowd, and Elrohir's eyes turned away from the maiden's finding the king once more, now with Arwen beside him, standing before the four small Hobbits standing in the center of the high battlement who had brought about this new age of hope. The four small folk had bowed stiffly before the king and his betrothed, though now, their innocent faces written with looks of unsurity, looked up again.

Aragorn smiled. "You bow to no one."

And with this, the king of Gondor and Arnor, lowered himself to one knee before the four Hobbits, and his betrothed knelt beside him as well.

About them, the people slowly dropped to their knees as well, and with a sigh, Elrohir bowed his head, and lowered himself to one knee, his eyes fixed upon the stone tiles at his feet as a rustle of skirts indicated that Lothiriel had hopped down from her perch, and knelt beside him as well.

"Forgive me for my boldness, my lord," Lothiriel whispered softly at his elbow. "I have seen the pain in your eyes, and I have wondered perhaps if it is more than the resignation of seeing your sister wed to a mortal."

He sighed at this, turning his face partway toward the maiden though he did not glance away from the stones upon which he knelt. "It is, my lady," he murmured. "But-, there is little you can do for me."

Lothiriel gulped softly, and her eyes drew on a look of sorrow. She reached out and rested her hand upon his arm. "I am sorry-,"

"Do not be," he ordered gently, stilling her words as he touched her hand gently where it rested upon his arm, and squeezed it softly. "You are goodly, and compassionate, and for all your admissions of wildness, the nobility in you is clear to see." He managed a heavy smile for her sake, and Lothiriel brightened a little.

The king had risen now, and the folk about them were beginning to rise to their feet. At the soft rustle of the crowd about them rising, Elrohir stood slowly, his hand helping the maiden to her own feet as well.

Slowly now, like a gradual tide, the people of Minas Tirith began to file away, their footsteps echoing softly down the porthole toward the levels below, though the Elves, and the warriors of Rohan remained behind. Elrohir stood beside the balustrade unmoving, wishing to join those departing, to leave his kin, and to nurse his wounded heart alone, without pity. But as his eyes found Éomer across the distance as the Dwarf Gimli greeted Rohan's king, a sudden throb of determination shuddered through the broken fragments of his heart, and courage he had not known he had, swelled within him.

"My lady?" he queried, and Lothiriel glanced swiftly at him. "Do you wish to meet Éomer?"

Lothiriel's eyes shot wide, and her countenance fairly glowed with joy. "My lord?" she breathed softly. "You would take me to him?"

Elrohir smiled, and offered her the crook of his elbow. And she eagerly slipped her arm in, following his lead through the departing gathering.

...

Éomer stood with half bowed head, his face drawn in an expression of stern attentiveness as he half listened to Gimli's words. He nodded now and again in agreement as the Dwarf spoke, struggling to remained focused upon his words. Faramir with Éowyn beside him who had joined them moments before, seemed entirely engrossed by the Dwarf's words, of his animated retelling his meeting with the fair lady Galadriel of Lothlórien whom he had just spoken to for the first time since he had departed the Golden Wood. The lady was indeed as fair and wise as the Dwarf claimed, he admitted to himself. And unbending in adversity as well, he did not doubt as the Lady Lalaith was, whose courage he had seen for himself. His sister too, though a mortal, was a woman of strength and fearlessness, but how many other women were like them? Surely there were other women in these free lands who could do more than weave and embroider, who would not stand in lovely, awkward bewilderment if she were ever bidden to saddle her own horse. Surely there were-,

Éomer shook himself quickly, and straightened his shoulders. His mind was slipping into daydreams again, he chided himself as he struggled to keep his expression interested, the crush of the crowd and the weight of drudging formality having drained him. Would that he were upon the wide plains of Rohan again, upon the back of a horse, with the wind in his face. And perhaps, he pondered to himself, with a woman riding beside him. A woman he mused, who was in no way sisterly. A beautiful, free-spirited woman with the sun in her unbound hair, and laughter upon her lips as she rode barefoot, straddling her horse, with her skirts tangled about her smooth, shapely legs-,

Against his will, a low plaintive sigh escaped his lips before he could catch it, and he glanced furtively toward his sister, meeting Éowyn's eyes as she stood hand in hand with Faramir. Her eyes met his, and danced teasingly at his brief glance of pained worry. She shook her head, smiling. None but she had noticed, and Éomer shot her a covert grin of relief.

"Hail, Éomer King!" a man's voice sounded behind him over Gimli's rumbling tones, one of the sons of Elrond, he guessed by the timbre of it as Gimli's words trundled to a polite halt at the approach of the Elven man.

Stifling a yawn, Éomer turned, forcing a smile to his face as he prepared himself to greet the Elven lord with the usual formalities, the forced smiles and stiff bows that decorum required.

But as his eyes came to rest upon the maiden who drew near upon the Elf's arm, Éomer froze, his muscles grown suddenly stiff, thoughts of drudging formality and decorum flitting away upon the wind. He stood still, blinking, his jaw half fallen open as he struggled to comprehend the fair vision that stood before him, clinging to the arm of the somber eyed, dark haired Elf.

The maiden smiled as her eyes met his own, the scattering of freckles upon her pert little nose crinkling adorably as she boldly met his gaze. How like his own sister, she seemed, her gaze bold yet soft, her hair golden and freely hanging, playing in the slight wind like Éowyn's was oft to do. Yet-, Éomer gulped hard, feeling a strange new warmth stirring wildly within him, how truly unsisterly she was, indeed.

Her young form was lithe and slender, like a honed blade, and pleasingly feminine beneath the warm yellow silk of her gown. And there was strength and boldness in her eyes; hazel eyes that were flecked with gold and green that seemed to see into the very depths of his soul. Éomer swallowed stiffly, wondering if the hot pulse of his blood was coloring his face.

"Hail, Éomer king," Elrohir offered, with a short bow. "May I present to you, Lady Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth."

At this, the maiden released the Elven lord's sturdy arm with a brief glance of thanks, and drew a step forward, her gaze fixing again upon Éomer's.

"It is an honor, Éomer, king of Rohan." she greeted, breaking her gaze with his at last as she lowered herself in a graceful curtsey.

Éomer stood as one struck suddenly mute, his hands hanging heavily at his sides. This fair creature was Lothiriel, the daughter of his friend Imrahil? He had imagined her to be Elven fair, and yellow haired like her father, bold and brave as Imrahil had so proudly claimed. But Éomer had not imagined such beauty as this. Such that the very breath was stopped in his lungs.

The maiden paused in her graceful bow, lifted her eyes, glancing up at him in question.

"Éomer?" Gimli grumbled, his voice bearing a hint of annoyance that Éomer would not return the maiden's obeisance as beside him, Éowyn nudged him, jerking him from his trance.

"Eh," he stuttered, chagrined, and offered a hasty bow in return.

The maiden, rose again, and drew a step nearer to him, her eyes sparking as she smiled. "I believe that you know my father?" she breathed, and Éomer gulped for breath, finding himself suddenly drowning within the maiden's bright gaze.

"He helped to save my life," Éowyn offered, and the maiden turned her eyes upon the shieldmaiden, brightening.

"And you are Lady Éowyn, Lord Éomer's sister!" Lothiriel gasped, making no effort to hide her pleasure.

"I am," Éowyn offered with a quiet smile, drawing near to Éomer, and giving him a gentle, yet firm shove, pushing him nearer to the maiden.

His heart caught upon a beat within him as he stumbled to a halt before the young woman, noting the quickened rise and fall of her breathing, and the flush that crept over her sweetly formed face at his sudden nearness. He gulped hard. She could breath very well, he found himself thinking stupidly as he felt the warmth of her across the space between them. And were he to reach out, Éomer realized, he could touch her-,

His throat grew dry at the thought, and Lothiriel smiled softly, almost as if she sensed his thoughts. And her eyes grew warm and inviting as she waited. Éomer wished to speak, to say something witty that would make her laugh, that would endear her to him forever.

"I-, I, eh, do you-," he muttered slowly before he blurted, "do you have a liking for horses?"

Éomer could have died of self loathing in that moment. He gulped, and cursed himself inwardly. Of all the foolish things to blurt out of his mouth, that had to come spurting forth!

But rather than being taken aback by his words, Lothiriel smiled, and stepping forward, caught his hand in her grip, strong for a maiden's. Her touch sent a wave of warmth through his flesh from where her fingers boldly wove through his own.

"I do," she breathed softly.

"Eh," he stammered again, struggling to comprehend the warmth that seeped into his heart at her words. "Oh, yes, as-, as do I."

He could feel the eyes of Éowyn and Faramir, and of Gimli and the Elf lord upon him, but he had no desire to look away from the eyes of Lothiriel, lost in their depths as he was.

"Shall we go find my father?" Lothiriel asked quietly, gently turning him toward the crowd of nobles where her father stood in the midst. "And then perhaps-," her cheeks flushed again, and she ducked her head briefly. "Perhaps we could go riding together, upon the plains."

Éomer's eyes widened at this, and a grin came to his lips. Drawing in a breath that swelled in his lungs, he gallantly offered the maiden his arm.

Grinning like a child, she took it, and though it seemed a bold move, she seemed pleased when Éomer covered her hand with his own where it rested in the crook of his arm, and started toward the crowd where her father stood.

"I think we shall become good friends my lord, Éomer," Lothiriel murmured softly beneath her breath.

"Indeed, I am certain we will, Lady Lothiriel," he returned to her, his voice grown even and strong. He turned to glance at the maiden beside him, drinking in the glowing smile upon her face. And he grinned back.

...

Elrohir sighed heavily and watched the beaming maiden strolling away upon the arm of Éomer. Her pleasure was easy to see, and he was glad for her. But as he saw the lady Éowyn lean conspiratorially toward the Lord Faramir and whispering a bright secret into his ear concerning the departing pair before glancing brightly toward him, Elrohir offered her a brief nod and turned away. He did not wish to be drawn into the lighthearted speech of lovers who could not understand his pain, wanting only to be alone, now.

"Elrohir," a maiden's voice behind him brought his head up again, however, and he forced a smile upon his face, turning to greet Lalaith.

"I saw you through the crowd," she began with a worried smile. "Lord Glorfindel and his lady have been seeking you most desperately all night-," Her words fell silent at the taut expression upon his face at whom he saw over her shoulder.

"Elrohir-," Glorfindel began, moving forward, a hand outstretched as if to bid him to be calm. He felt a soft hand squeeze his own in farewell, then the light clip of Lalaith's steps moved away, leaving them alone.

"How is Ithilwen?" Elrohir blurted suddenly, heatedly, his words sharply taut. "She is not fading, is she?"

Glorfindel smiled sadly at these words as he studied Elrohir's face with a look of compassion.

"It does not surprise me that you would think to ask of her, before you spoke of your own pain," Glorfindel murmured, his voice fraught with compassion as he came forward yet another step. "But before we speak of Ithilwen, may we first speak of Calassë?"

Elrohir dropped his eyes, defeated.

"I do not know what it would accomplish," he muttered wearily.

"Do you trust me, my friend?"

Elrohir choked softly at this. Of a certainty he had always trusted Glorfindel. The man had been as a second father to him for as long as he could remember.

"Y-yes," he managed to grate through the hard lump of tears forming in his throat.

"Then come with me," Glorfindel commanded gently, and with a brotherly hand upon the younger Elf's shoulder, turned him away from the bright chatter of the fading crowd. With meek obedience, Elrohir followed the elder Elf lord's guidance back toward the balustrade that overlooked the city below, and the wide plains beyond.

"Elrohir," he seethed softly, once they were alone. Glorfindel jostled his shoulder, pleading for him to look up, but Elrohir could not. "I wish for you to allow Calassë to speak to you. There is something she alone must tell you of-,"

"Forgive me, Glorfindel, but I fear that I could not endure that," he cut in swiftly, his eyes crushing closed. "Surely you are pained as well by this terrible entanglement we four have found ourselves in." He could feel tears pressing from beneath his closed eyelids, and could not look up into the face of his long trusted friend, his face heated in shame.

"You love Calassë, do you not?" Glorfindel's words were spoken with gentle strength.

Elrohir drew in a shuddering breath, and upon his shoulder, Glorfindel's hand tightened, lending him much needed strength. "I love her, yes," he choked softly. "Enough to freely relinquish her to you, for the sake of her happiness, as I know Ithilwen has willingly given you back to her. But-,"

A sudden tightness in his throat choked his words. He struggled through the sudden tears that rose in his throat.

"Do not let Calassë forget me," he pleaded softly. "Love her well. Make her happy and-, forgive me my-, love for her."

Lifting his heavy head at last, he gazed into Glorfindel's eyes to see them also filling with tears.

"And do not forget Ithilwen," he begged through his choking tears. "She is far more gentle hearted than I, and the pain could destroy her, if you are not mindful of her. I beg you, Glorfindel."

"Elrohir," Glorfindel choked, his voice hardly his own, and the hand upon his shoulder tightened in unspoken compassion. "I have never known a truer, more selfless heart."

Glorfindel, his jaw grown taut with emotion, turned away then, glancing with softened eyes toward two figures drawing near. Before now, in his blind grief, Elrohir had not seen them. And following the elder Elf's gaze Elrohir drew in a short breath of surprise.

Ithilwen, her face calm and eased of pain, though drawn in compassionate sorrow, stood beside Calassë whose eyes were lifted, large and shining with tears, waiting in patient silence for Elrohir to look at her. The two maidens' hands were joined as if in shared worry.

Within Calassë's golden hair the same small yellow flower he had given her the night before was carefully tucked behind the delicate peak of her ear once again. He sighed brokenly at the sight of it. She had picked it up. The thought made his heart, though torn and ragged, to pulse with a sudden throb of longing. And when Calassë's eyes found his, such adoration lit her face that Elrohir's entire body grew warm in sweet agony. He shuddered, his limbs suddenly weakened, though Glorfindel's hand upheld him.

"Elrohir-," Calassë sighed, her voice but a breath of air upon her lips as she left Ithilwen's side and came to stand before the two Elven men.

"Calassë," Elrohir managed to choke out, struggling not to weep before her though his eyes filled with tears.

"Calassë has something you must hear from her lips alone," Glorfindel urged gently, gathering the maiden's hand up in his free hand.

Elrohir flinched at the tender gesture between the two, and shuddered, dropping his eyes.

"Elrohir," Calassë choked again, softly, her voice barely audible, though her achingly sweet voice had the power to lift his heavy gaze up to meet her own. "You left so swiftly last night-, we sought for you, but-,"

She choked softly, wretched pain in her eyes, and tears upon her cheeks that he wished with wrenching agony, he could kiss away.

"Elrohir, forgive me!" she pleaded. "I was so overcome when I saw Glorfindel, and so suddenly remembered him-,"

"There is nothing to forgive, Calassë!" he choked, shaking his head, searching her bright, tear filled eyes as his heart throbbed in wretched misery within him. "You have done no wrong. I freely release you to Glorfindel's care, as you wish for me to. And you have my blessing, as Lady Ithilwen, I do not doubt, has given hers. Be happy together, that is all I ask."

"But-, but Elrohir-," she choked softly upon a soft sob, looking to Glorfindel for help.

"Elrohir," Glorfindel cut in, catching his limp wrist, and raising it up until it was level with Calassë's small hand he held within his own. "You have my blessing. I am honored beyond words at her choice."

Elrohir's heart all but stopped in his chest as Glorfindel placed Calassë's small, cool hand within his own.

Smiling adoringly upon Calassë, Glorfindel bent and pressed a kiss to her brow before he withdrew a pace to Ithilwen's side. Elrohir's numbed thoughts struggled to comprehend as Glorfindel gathered the other maiden's hand into his own, and lifted it to his lips as he slipped his free arm about her shoulders, their eyes trading a deep and tender expression.

"Elrohir-," Calassë breathed, and his eyes turned back to hers, drinking in the sight of her, hardly daring to breath, hardly daring to comprehend the weight of all that was happening.

She sighed out a long held breath, and smiled as if the light of the sun had been capture in her very soul. She caught his larger hand in both her small ones, and softly, sweetly, breathed, "Elrohir my dearest one, my beloved-, Glorfindel is my_ brother_."


	54. Chapter 53

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 53

July 23, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

_"Elrohir-," Calassë breathed, and his eyes turned back to hers, drinking in the sight of her, hardly daring to breath, hardly daring to comprehend the weight of all that was happening._

_She sighed out a long held breath, and smiled as if the light of the sun had been capture in her very soul. She caught his larger hand in both her small ones, and softly, sweetly, breathed, "Elrohir my dearest one, my beloved-, Glorfindel is my _brother_."_

...

Chapter 53

Elrohir blinked. "Your brother?" he echoed softly.

"Yes!" Calassë hissed, her grip upon his hand tightening. "Glorfindel is my dearly loved brother, to whom I have been lost these many centuries."

"Calassë!" Elrohir choked as the shards of his heart softened, like wax beneath the warmth of a flame, forming together again, new and whole, and pulsing with sudden hope that had no existence scant moments before.

"I have told him all that has happened to me, to you, to us," she breathed, seeking his eyes with an intense, pleading gaze. "And of the love that has grown between us-," she sighed low.

Tears touched his eyes, running down his face, and he ducked his head, lifting a hand to wipe them away.

"Elrohir," her gentle voice commanded, the barest touch of her fingers against his jaw lifting his face again to hers. "Let me-," she murmured softly. With these words, she rose upon her toes, leaning into him as her lips brushed tenderly over his face, smoothing the lines of wetness away. Her soft kisses slid slowly, deftly over his face until her lips at last, sighing softly, covered his mouth.

All else about them faded as her arms slid about his neck. His own arms circled about her tiny waist, tentatively at first, until he remembered once again that she truly belonged to no other. She was his. And with that joyful rememberance, his arms twined suddenly about her, and pulled her hard against himself as he crushed her lips beneath his own and tasted her fervently, the salt of their mingled tears wet between their lips as her own tender, hungry caresses answered his own.

"Calassë," he wept gently when he drew back at last, murmuring her name over and over again as he caught her face in his hands and smoothed her tears away with kisses of his own pressed delicately upon her flushed, eager face. "I had thought I had lost you forever. I thought my hope was dead-,"

"Forgive me, Elrohir," she returned between soft gasps. "I was so overcome, I did not think-,"

"There is nothing to forgive!" he insisted, clasping her shoulders, and drawing back from her, to find her eyes. "Glorfindel is your brother! You love him. He-,"

His words died. Color crept into his face as reality returned. He swallowed hard, then turned and glanced toward Glorfindel and Ithilwen standing by, their arms about each other, watching the pair with merriment in their eyes.

"Glorfindel," he gasped, mortified, drawing back from Calassë's embrace. "Forgive me! I-,"

"Forgive you, my brother?" Glorfindel chuckled merrily drawing near with Ithilwen upon his arm, the maiden beaming as he was. Glorfindel's arm found Elrohir's shoulder, and he jostled him gently, to which Elrohir smiled, chagrined. "There is no need! You love my sister! How can I fault you?"

"But I-," Elrohir continued to splutter, "I kissed her! In front of you!"

"As I kissed my beloved Glorfindel in front of his sister, when I too, learned the joyful truth, my lord, Elrohir," Ithilwen assured him merrily. "You have done no wrong."

Glorfindel grinned down at his own beloved, and with a gentle squeeze, released her and came forward, clasping Elrohir's shoulder. "Thank you," he murmured softly. "I have never seen my sister happier."

Elrond's son returned the gesture, clasping Glorfindel's shoulder in a strong grip. "It is I who should thank you," he countered warmly. "For entrusting her to me."

The two Elven men spoke no more words, though volumes of understanding and gratitude passed between their eyes.

A soft trill of subdued laughter, like the laughter of bright water reached his ears, and Elrohir glanced toward the sound, seeing Lalaith beside Legolas as they shared cheerful, laughing banter with Aragorn and Arwen. Legolas' arm was encircled tightly about Lalaith's waist, and her own arm about his.

"I suspect you have not heard the news," Glorfindel sighed softly, turning to glance at the maiden as well as he, with a final squeeze, released Elrohir's shoulder. "Legolas has already spoken to Lord Elrond of wedding Lalaith in Imladris before the spring has ended. King Elessar and Lady Arwen will come with us, to see the wedding and yours and Elladan's as well. And King Thranduil with his queen and their contingent will repose a few weeks in Imladris as our guests. The day after Midsummer, the day we have chosen as our wedding day," he smiled warmly upon Ithilwen, who blushed prettily, and ducked her head, "the King Elessar and Lady Arwen mean to return to Gondor while King Thranduil and his people will depart for Eryn Lasgalen."

"Ai, and Lalaith will go with them, then," Elrohir sighed, studying his golden haired cousin's bright face as she laughed aloud at something Aragorn had said, and hid her face against Legolas' shoulder in merry embarrassment.

"She will," Glorfindel sighed.

Glancing toward the golden haired maiden, Elrohir sighed as he studied the fair, familiar face, the maiden as dear as a sister to him. Sensing his eyes upon her, she lifted her eyes, and met his gaze.

Lalaith's eyes brightened at the sight of him, seeing the weighted care was gone from his countenance. And she smiled and waved a small hand toward him. Arwen, seeing her gesture, turned, brightening at the sight of her brother, and waved as well.

"Though cousin I have called her, she has always been sister to me," Elrohir murmured softly, lifting a hand, and waving back to the two women as he grinned past a suddenly bitter sweet pang. "A sister whom I shall still have, long after the last of our kin have sailed into the West."

...

"And so," Calassë finished at last, with a ragged sigh, leaning back into Elrohir's shoulder relieved that the full of her story had been told, "that is how, at last, I came to be in the blessed woods of Lothlórien. That is why I must ask your forgiveness."

Lalaith sat in the warmth of the shadowed sitting room in her small dwelling, the scent of flowers wafting in on the air from the balcony beyond as she studied the silver, star woven blanket that rested in her lap, which the other maiden had just given her. She looked up, trading a glance with Pippin where he sat upon a low cushioned stool, his face bearing an expression of overwhelming sympathy at the maiden's heavy story.

"And so you were-," he stammered, glancing from Lalaith to Calassë and back again. "You were that very orc who picked me up on the steps of Orthanc-,"

"Yes," Calassë choked, beginning again to cry as Elrohir's hand soothed her soft hair where the pair sat upon a cushioned, high backed seat in the corner of the room. "I am sorry! So very sorry. I was vile, and wicked, and-,"

"No you weren't!" Pippin protested, pressing his hands upon his knees, and leaning forward, his face open and earnest. "That woman who was with you. That-," his face took on a look of disgust at the memory, "That dirty-, that-, that awful wench! She told you to kill me, but you didn't! You didn't, my lady!"

"Indeed," Lalaith added softly, her eyes down. "I thought in remember that encounter on the steps of Orthanc, that it was odd a daughter of Men would be more cruel than an orc. I could never understand why. You did nothing to hurt either of us."

"But I did nothing to help you," Calassë protested, her voice small as she brushed tears from her face. "Greta nearly killed you, my lady, and I stood by. I did nothing."

"But Calassë, you were frightened, and-,"

Lalaith sighed, leaning back upon the chair where she sat, studying the maiden's grieving face, and Elrohir's look of tender devotion.

"Calassë, do not think on what you didn't do," she breathed at last. "Think on what you did do. You left Greta-," a chill swept over Lalaith at the mention of the woman's name, her face, beautiful and cruel, flashing before her vision, her cruel, merciless lies, more biting than any orc's blade. "You left Orthanc, and all that shackled you, and made your own way to the Golden Wood where they found you, and brought you back. Think on what you have done right."

Calassë sighed, "But I-,"

"If you wish to hear the words, then know that I gladly forgive you, Calassë, as I know Pippin does," Lalaith murmured softly, her heart brimming.

"I do," Pippin offered readily, to which Calassë smiled warmly upon the Hobbit. "For you are a kind, gentle lady. And you should not let yourself suffer anymore for something that is repaired, and healed now."

Lalaith reached over, and clasping Calassë hand, she smiled at the sweet relief that came over the other maiden's countenance, and the gratitude in Elrohir's eyes.

...

The lamps set here and there about the high pinnacle beneath the silver tower of Ecthelion flickered like flags of yellow and orange in the night wind that smelled sweetly of high mountain flowers. About one edge of the encircling lamps, were set carven benches for the dancers who wished to rest, while upon the other side were tables fairly groaning beneath the weight of the many foods upon them, roasted meats, and luscious fruits as well as crisp breads, and delicate sweetmeats. Hidden just beyond the reach of the torchlight, musicians played a slow gentle tune, matching the tender mood that rested gently upon Lalaith's heart, intermingle with all the other tart emotions that coursed through her as she swayed lightly in Legolas' arms, her head upon her shoulder. She sighed as she gazed over the other couples who glided lightly over the stone tiles around them. Elrohir with Calassë tenderly encircled in his arms, was nearest to her, the two Elves swaying together to the music as they gazed into each others eyes, each equally entranced by the other.

Ai, the look of perfect contentment and adoration upon her kinsman's face was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and Lalaith could not keep the soft shudder from breaking past her lips.

"Lalaith-," Legolas murmured tenderly, drawing back, and touching a hand to her cheek though the rhythm of his movement did not change. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, forgive me beloved," she breathed softly, lifting a hand, running her fingertips over the smooth silver fabric of the tunic he wore. She shivered softly as warmth trailed deliciously through her body at the touch of his firm muscles beneath the cloth, the steady rise and fall of his breath, and the quiet murmur of his heart. "It is only that-, all is as it should be for all who are dear to me. It is so strange a thing that we need not fear, any more. I often wonder-, I am almost frightened that something evil is hidden still, wanting to hinder our happiness."

Legolas sighed softly at these words. "Our quest is completed," he breathed softly bending near to her, so that the cloth of his tunic barely brushed the silken fabric of her gown, his firm chest warm against the softness of her young body. "We faced Sauron's minions side by side as we vowed we would. You faced Sauron. He was defeated, his Ring is gone, and his power has passed into nothingness. Spring has come, and we are here, together. Do not be afraid."

Lalaith sighed and shuddered at the tantalizing press of his body against hers, and Legolas reluctantly drew back again to gaze at the timid expression that had come over her face.

"Do you remember the ceremony?" she breathed softly. "Do you remember when we stood beside the wedding pair, when I spoke for Arwen, and you for Aragorn, and joined their hands together? Did you feel as I?"

He smiled teasingly into her eyes, sensing her feelings. Leaning near, he breathed in her ear, "I felt it as well, Lalaith nin. When our eyes met, when you spoke the name of your exalted mother Varda, and I of your father, Manwë. Our waiting is nearing an end, my beloved. Soon, we shall be one as we long to be. In soul and in body."

Lalaith shivered again at the promise in his words, the flame in his eyes. "That day is not drawing near, soon enough," she heard herself murmur huskily, and as he drew her nearer to him and softly nuzzled her hair with his silent reply, she glanced past his shoulder toward her cousin who was dancing in the arms of her father, Elrond. The two of them were engaged in quiet words, both smiling sadly into the eyes of the other.

Arwen touched a hand to her father's cheek in a comforting gesture as the two glided slowly over the floor together, with Aragorn clad in his wedding robes of white and silver watching them with subdued joy from the edge of the firelight. His bride, sheltered by her father's capable arms, flowed across the stone tiles as beautiful in her shining wedding gown as if she were a living moonbeam.

Legolas, noting her distraction, glanced to where Lalaith did, and uttered a soft sigh at the look of quiet resignation upon the face of Elrond as the quiet lilting music that had flowed over the high parapet, faded into peaceful silence. Aragorn came slowly forward then as the Elf lord turned toward him, and with a last heavy smile, relinquished his daughter's hand into the hand of Gondor's king, and strode slowly away toward the edge of the encircling torches to fall wearily upon an empty bench, his expression weary and subdued as he watched his daughter.

Beyond the reach of the torchlight, the musicians began the first stirrings of another song, and Legolas' arm slid eagerly about Lalaith's waist as the courtyard beneath the steps of the high silver tower of Ecthelion once again became a forest of swirling skirts. The king and his new queen joined in the dancing, though Lalaith could not help but note, the pair were straying nearer and nearer to the edge of the firelight, their eyes fixed upon each other, their gazes darkened with undisguised desire.

At last, Lalaith smiled and ducked her head as Arwen, her patience seemingly faded at last, snatched Aragorn's hand, and caring not at all of the looks of teasing understanding that were cast their way, pulled her suddenly startled husband away with her into the shadows beyond the torchlight. The sound of their mingled laughter and fleeing footsteps faded away into the shadows that led toward the palace, and the king's private chambers that had been made ready for them.

"Soon, Lalaith nin, soon," Legolas breathed softly into her ear, the warmth of his words washing deliciously over the bare flesh of her neck.

She sighed at that, and smiled into his eyes before a soft voice at their elbow, drew their attention from each other.

"Prince Legolas," Elrond asked, his familiar eyes smiling warming upon her, though there was undeniable weariness in them. "Might I beg a moment with your betrothed?"

"Of course, my lord," Legolas offered, stepping back, and willingly relinquishing her hand into Elrond's. Legolas flashed Lalaith a glance filled with warm secrets then before he moved away, striding with the easy grace that was his, to the edge of the firelight where his parents stood, conversing with Éomer, the king of Rohan who stood hand in hand with Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth whose fingers were woven together with his in a gesture of endearing affection.

Rather than leading Lalaith among the other dancers, Elrond guided the maiden away to a stone bench between two flickering lamps, and gestured her to sit. Lalaith did as she was bidden, watching her uncle as he dropped wearily upon the seat beside her, then, wordlessly, silently, buried his face into his hands.

"Uncle Elrond," Lalaith soothed, touching a hand to his back in a consoling manner as if she were the elder. "I-," she swallowed stiffly. Any words she could speak would be shallow. Arwen was not her own daughter. Surely Lalaith did not understand the aching, terrible love of a parent for a child, the wrenching sacrifice it took for Elrond to relinquish his only daughter to mortality, knowing now, that it was but a matter of years, and the doom of Men would claim her.

"I love her, too," she managed to murmur at last, and bent her head, knowing the weakness of her paltry, childish words. "Though not as greatly as you love her, surely."

"Lalaith, Lalaith," Elrond murmured, his voice soft, though she could hear the aching sobs within his words as he caught her hand between both of his own, large and gentle and warm as they trembled with emotion.

"My child, my little golden haired treasure," he choked. "I love you no less than I love Arwen. You know that, do you not?"

"Of course I do. I always have," she breathed softly, squeezing his large capable hands with both of hers.

Elrond sighed raggedly at this, his eyes fixed intently on their hands before he continued brokenly, "I was truly blessed the day you came into my life, like a ray of sunlight wrapped in a shawl when Legolas handed you into Celebrian's arms, and I saw your face for the first time. Since your coming, you have given me far more than I could ever return to you, and I wish that I had-,"

"Uncle Elrond," she chided gently. "Your selflessness and generosity, and your kind and patient wisdom have blessed me all my life! More than I can say. Do not say such things!"

He drew in a ragged sigh, and as if suddenly coming to himself, looked up into her eyes, a look of chagrin upon his wise, gentle face.

"From the time you were small, I taught you to call me Uncle."

Lalaith nodded softly at this. "Because you did not wish to take the honor due to my birth parents for yourself. I have always understood that."

"But I-," Elrond swallowed hard and glanced away, struggling to maintain his emotions. "I hope that you understand you are mine, as much as if you were a child of my blood. You have ever been my cherished daughter, as much as Arwen has been. My pride in you is no less than my pride in her, and in Elladan, and Elrohir."

"I know that!" Lalaith soothed. "You do not fear that I feel you love me less than the others?"

Elrond smiled sadly at these gentle words, his eyes down. "No, but-, You were a daughter to me, ere Aragorn was born. Long before I knew in my heart that one day I would lose Arwen to him, you have been my daughter. And now, looking back, I wish I had taught you to-, to call me-,"

"Ada?" Lalaith softly finished for him, her cheek coming to rest against Elrond's shoulder, and at the quietly uttered word, Elrond's shoulders began to shake softly, silently.

"It is not too late," she breathed. "Though I have never called you such, you have always been _Adar _to me."

And at these words, he straightened. And with a muffled sob, caught her to him, his cheek pressed against the gold of her hair.


	55. Chapter 54

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 54

July 29, 2005

_Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina_

Lalaith turned, glancing over her shoulder as the trees passed slowly above their heads, the warm wind beneath the trees catching at her unbound hair, and her skirts of soft sky blue, overlain with a riding cloak of silver. Her hand rested briefly upon her pack bound across the back of her saddle, her quiver gifted to her from Théoden, tied across the top of the pack with her bow tucked beside it. Even the small knife Galadriel had gifted to her months before in the Golden Wood, was bundled away beside her larger knives. Strange it seemed to her, that after so many months of uncertainty and fear, they were not ready for her use, and she wished, briefly, that they were. For in spite of Legolas' assurances, and the peace that even now rested over her like a soft mantle, Lalaith could not yet shake the faintest feeling that there was yet something that wished harm upon them, distant and elusive, though it was.

But surely it was only unfounded fears, now that Sauron's power was destroy, Lalaith assured herself. And even so, the men of the company were armed, with full quivers of arrows and bows across their backs for hunting as they traveled. Even the small Hobbits beside her, Merry and Pippin, had been gifted bows and small quivers of arrows when they had paused for a time in Edoras. She was safe, she promised herself. With a sigh, she pressed the quiet trepidation away into a corner of her mind, and focused her thoughts now on the Dwarf behind her.

"Gimli!" she called out, her voice one of playful banter.

"Eh?" the Dwarf called out from the saddle where he rode alone upon Arod's back. He had become quite a skilled horseman, though he would not dare to admit it.

"How do these woods compare to the beauty of the Glittering Caves you bid me and Legolas to visit with you, when we paused at the fortress of Helm's Deep?"

Lalaith cast a grin beside her toward Legolas where he rode alongside her, Rana's reins loose in his hands.

A long silence passed behind her, until, in merry impatience Lalaith swiveled in the saddle where she rode upon Hasufel's back, to look directly at the Dwarf.

"Have you no words?" she inquired teasingly. "This is just the brief tip of the forest of Fangorn. And as I remember, you promised to ride with us into the deep places of the Entwood on our journey to Eryn Lasgalen."

The Dwarf grumbled softly at this. "And had you words for the caves when you saw them? When you and your doting suitor there saw the Glittering Caves, to which I had to more or less _drag_ the both of you, you had no words to speak of them. As I recall, you both stared with not a word of note coming from either of your mouths."

"Indeed, Gimli, my friend," Legolas called out warmly, glancing back at his Dwarven comrade before casting a warm glance toward Lalaith. "You claimed the victory on that day! But never again will a Dwarf claim victory over an Elf in a contest of words. And you must see to your end of the bargain, and pass with us through the deeper parts of Fangorn, that we may set the score right."

"Ha!" Gimli laughed aloud, his voice echoing through the thickness of the shadowed trees amid the soft clop of horse's hooves, and the creak of leather. "But you forget, when we journey eastward again, the two of you will be newly wedded! And what noteworthy words will be coming from either of your mouths, then? I'll wager your horses will be more talkative than you, then! You'll be as dumbstruck as Faramir was, when Lady Éowyn's hand was given to him in marriage during our stay in Edoras."

Aragorn, clad in fine, kingly robes, cast a glance at his new bride beside him, and Arwen returned his teasing look, though no words passed between them.

"As I remember," Gandalf called from near the fore of the column, casting an affectionate glance at Aragorn and his fair queen who rode beside him, "his new kinsman Éomer King was no better when he asked Prince Imrahil permission to plight his troth to the lady Lothiriel, and was granted it."

"Augh, indeed!" Gimli crowed in agreement. "The poor man could not put so much as two words together when he realized that he had the blessing of the lady's father! As if he thought he wouldn't get it!"

"He could talk to _her_, well enough," Pippin chirped brightly from where he rode near Lalaith, upon his spirited little pony. " I saw them kissing on the veranda of the Golden Hall, at sunset."

"You wouldn't call that talking," Merry interjected.

To this, Pippin cleared his throat. "They were communing, then. Very agreeably."

To this, soft laughter echoed up and down the line of traveling Elves, and three of the four Hobbits mounted on their small ponies, chuckled brightly.

"It was a happy ending to a sad farewell," Merry agreed, a small, somber smile upon his face.

"It was, indeed," Lalaith returned softly, remembering the somber tone of the funeral party when Théoden's body had at last been buried under the white flowered mounds beside where his son lay.

With a distant look in his eyes, Merry sighed, and glanced away.

Lalaith smiled upon the dejected Hobbit, and lifting her voice softly she sang, so that few, even among the Elves about him, heard her words,

"_Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising  
>he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.<br>Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;  
>over death, over dread, over doom lifted<br>out of loss, out of life, unto long glory._"

Merry turned and glanced to here where he rode upon his sturdy little pony, Stybba, a gift from Théoden, and the Hobbit and Elf maiden traded a small smile.

"Master Dwarf!" Calassë chirped brightly.

"Eh?" Gimli called out, turning and glancing toward the golden haired maiden where she rode near to the Dwarf upon a bright silver mare, Elrohir riding a darker steed beside her.

"Do you think perhaps, that unlike other men, you will be brimming with clever, sparkling words when you find a Dwarf lady of your own to wed?" queried the maiden cheerfully.

To this Gimli frowned, though not without a spark of merriment lighting in his eyes as quiet laughter again echoed over the column of Elves.

"Well, my lady," he replied, "there's little danger of that, since I probably won't ever find-," his quick retort was cut suddenly off at the sight of Calassë's face as her expression changed to a look of trepidation as the trees suddenly broke.

"Elrohir!" Calassë whimpered suddenly, and her betrothed eased his horse closer to hers, and caught her hand in his as Gimli whirled forward, snatching for his axe, expecting to be assailed by a host of orcs. But none were to be seen.

Nothing moved in the wide circle before them where two tall trees stood, like sentinels before a ruined gate where the wall circling Isengard had once been. The land was green and lush, far different from the quagmire it had once been, for it was filled now with orchards of flowering trees, and the sweet scent of growing things wafted upon the air as Ents strode tall among the smaller trees. A silver glittering stream ran through the vast circle, and into a clear lake, clean and sweet, where the black tower of Orthanc rose up, upon a rock in the midst of the water.

"Hrm," Gimli mumbled softly to himself, slipping his axe back in its place though he said no more.

"I remember this place!" Calassë moaned softly as Glorfindel's horse clipped near to her own, moving alongside her mount.

Lalaith turned about in the saddle at the frightened maiden's features, and met Elrohir's worried eyes. She smiled sadly as Elrohir turned away and leaned closer to Calassë, cupping her shivering face in his hand, and whispering quietly to her as Glorfindel hovered on the other side of his sister, his hand grasping her shoulder in worried attentiveness.

Swallowing, Lalaith turned forward. The sonorous tromping of Treebeard's feet and of Quickbeam's rumbled nearer as the two Ents strode toward them through the orchard about their legs.

"_Hoom, haroom_," Treebeard sighed as the two Ents drew to a stop before them, his golden eyes glancing over the group of mounted Elves and Hobbits, with Aragorn, clad in kingly robes at the head, and Gandalf sitting astride Shadowfax beside him. "Welcome to the Treegarth of Orthanc! I thought you were coming, but I was at work up the valley; there is much still to be done. But you have not been idle either away down in the south and the east, I hear. And all that I hear is good. Very good."

He smiled warmly upon them, his eyes traveling over the group, pausing now and again upon the different faces.

"Young Master Elrond, it is good indeed," Treebeard sighed, looking upon the Lord of Imladris with a familiar smile, "to see you again. And you young Lady Galadriel, and your goodly lord, Celeborn."

He smiled toward Galadriel and Celeborn and bowed low, to which the Lord and Lady of Lórien returned his bow.

"And young Master Gandalf, and the new king." He bowed toward the wizard, then toward Aragorn like a tree bending in the wind.

"You have come into your own at last," Treebeared breathed, his gaze focused upon the king of Gondor, "as you were meant to, from the beginning."

Aragorn smiled to this, and returned Treebeard's bow with a grateful nod of his head.

"And this is your lady queen?" Treebeard offered, bowing again to Arwen, lower now, than when he had bowed to her husband. "The daughter of Master Elrond. You are as fair as the tales tell, my lady. I am honored."

Arwen smiled, and returned a grateful nod at this.

"And our young Valië!" Treebeard sighed, the sound like wind passing through many leaves as he turned toward her. "And your prince. You seem," he sighed again, smiling as he did, his eyes glancing between them, "to have mended the differences that were between you when you were last here."

Lalaith and Legolas grinned at him as Treebeard turned upon the Hobbits, his eyes twinkling as he took in the four of them. "Ah, and my dear little friends, Meriadoc, and Peregrin. Well indeed it is, to see you," he breathed in his warm, sonorous voice. "And Masters Frodo Baggins, and Samwise Gamgee, if I am not mistaken."

A small a noise like a muffled mouse's squeak came from Sam's throat, and Lalaith glanced at him to see the stout little Hobbit gaping up at Treebeard, his jaw hanging slack as his wide eyes took in the two Ents.

"Yes, my-," Frodo answered, hesitantly before he smirked and finished, "my lord."

"Aaaaah," Treebeard soothed at last, his voice growing even warmer as his gaze came to rest upon Calassë who sat upon her mount, her eyes large and timid. "And who is this fair creature before me?" He smiled broadly, his golden eyes sparkling with recognition. "I see something in your eyes. Something I saw once before."

A broad smile drew itself across the bark of Treebeard's face as his eyes sparked with recognition. "Ah, my lady," he rumbled, placing branching hands upon his knotted knees as he bent down low to look more closely at her.

"My little friend," he gasped in his warm sonorous voice. "I remember you." His golden eyes glanced over her, his expression one of gentle, pleasant surprise. "You have done well."

He glanced toward Elrohir who sat at her side, his hand upon the maiden's. And Treebeard smiled the more deeply. "Very, very well," he added warmly.

"Thank you-, Treebeard." Calassë murmured softly, before she grinned broadly, to which Treebeard blinked, and nodded, his smile one of affectionate understanding.

"Thank you, indeed," Gandalf cut in. "For we have much to thank you for your aide in all that has been achieved."

"_Haroom_," breathed Treebeard, trading a slow, wise glance with Quickbeam. "What part we played was small to yours. Ridding this corner of the world of those evileyed-blackhanded-bowlegged-flinthearted-clawfingered-foulbellied-bloodthirsty, _hoom_, since their name is long as years of torment, those vermin orcs."

"Which was a great deed in all truth," Aragorn insisted. "And never shall be forgotten in Minas Tirith and Edoras."

"Never is too long a word for me," sighed Treebeard. "Not while your kingdoms last, you mean. But they will have to last long to seem long to Ents."

"The New Age begins," called out Gandalf. "And in this age it may well prove that the kingdoms of Men shall outlast you, Fangorn my friend. But now come tell me. How is Saruman, and those with him? Are they not weary of Orthanc yet?"

"Weary?" sighed Treebeard. "Yes, they were. Weary indeed. But not so weary that they could not listen to the news I brought them, much as they hated it as they dwelt here in Orthanc. That pale shadow of a woman always wished to hear news of the Elves, our fair Valië, and her prince. All I would tell her, was that they were not yet slain in the fighting. Neither of them. And she was very displeased by that." Treebeard smiled, proudly upon Lalaith. "I added a great many things to my tales that were good for all of them to hear, and they all grew very weary of the telling, for none of it was as they wished. Saruman was hasty. Too hasty, all of them. That was their ruin."

"I observe, my good Fangorn," called out Gandalf, "that with great care you say _dwelt, wished, was_. What about _is_? Are they dead?"

"No, not dead, so far as I know," said Treebeard. "But they are gone. Yes, they are gone these seven days past. I let them go. There was so little of Saruman when he crawled out, and that worm creature of his, and that woman, like a pale, wasted shadow."

"My friend, Fangorn," Gandalf called out as Lalaith, at Treebeard's calmly breathed words, had felt a shard of alarm shoot through her own heart as well. "I charged you to keep them safe."

"And safe is where I kept them," agreed Treebeard easily. "Safe from doing any harm. But times have changed. You know how well I hate the caging of even such creatures as they, beyond great need. A snake without fangs may crawl to where he will."

"You may be right," Gandalf agreed, "but Saruman is a snake with one tooth left. And Greta is a little spider whose venom is not yet spent. Saruman had the poison of his voice left, and I guess that one or both of them persuaded you, they knowing of the soft spot that is in you," Gandalf sat back with a sigh, and dropped his hands to his thighs with a shake of his head. "Well, Saruman is gone, with the worm and the spider, and there is no more to be said. But the Tower of Orthanc now goes back to the king, to whom it belongs. Though maybe he will not need it."

"That will be seen later," said Aragorn. "But I will give to the Ents this valley to do with as they will, so long as they keep a watch on Orthanc and see that none enter it without my leave."

"It is locked," sighed Treebeard. "I made Saruman lock it, and give me the keys. Quickbeam has them."

With a bow, as a tree in the wind, Quickbeam bent low, and handed to Aragorn two black keys in a ring of steel.

"I thank you," said Aragorn with a smile. "And I bid you farewell. May your forest grow again in peace."

Treebeard bowed again at this, smiling again over the assemblage before him. "Well goodbye, and take care. And if I have done wrong to let them go," he sighed, shrugging his wooden shoulders. "I offer you my regret."

"And forgiveness is readily given, old friend. For all that you have done, has been done with courage and good intent." Gandalf replied with an easy smile.

"If we ever hear of any Entwives, we'll let you know!" called out Pippin jovially, to which Treebeard grinned and nodded before he turned and strode off with Quickbeam beside him, into the trees of the green valley.

But Lalaith sat astride Hasufel's back, and contemplated the heavy weight of foreboding that simmered in the depths of her heart. Glancing at Calassë's face, she noted the trepidation that had crept across the maiden's countenance even as Elrohir gently caressed her face and spoke softly to her. And this only served to stir the heaviness in Lalaith's breast all the more.

…

High mountains rose to the east of their company, and a warm, sweetly scented wind wafted down from the high, cold Misty Mountains as their company slowly wended its way northward, following a path through the trees that arched about the curve of the mountains.

Lalaith smiled up into the bright sky, at the high white clouds that scraped across the blue expanse as she walked, leading Hasufel by the reins that rested lightly in one hand. Her heart was light and merry as she glanced briefly over her shoulder at Gimli riding upon Arod's back, who had taken up a conversation with Miriel and Calassë who were laughing merrily as he recalled some humorous tale to them, his gloved hands waving boisterously about. Lalaith glanced forward again, drinking in the sweet wind, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs, but most especially that she could walk side by side with Legolas. In one hand, he held Rana's reins, while his other held Lalaith's hand in his warm, comfortable grip, their fingers interwoven together as they made their way northward, drawing ever nearer to Imladris.

_Home,_ Lalaith thought with a touch of excitement. Homeward at last to Imladris, to all that was dear and familiar-, But then she caught herself with a smile, and turned to glance at Legolas beside her.

He caught her eye, and smiled back at her, a brief curve of his lips as his eyes glowed, warm with adoration.

Home it was indeed, and would ever be in her heart, the haven where she was raised in safety, nurtured by those who loved her, from her first faint memories in infanthood. But she would soon make a new home in Eryn Lasgalen, with Legolas as her husband. And the thought sent a warm rush of blood through her at the thought.

And as her face colored, Legolas grinned all the more, easing slightly nearer. Speaking not at all, he released her hand, and slipped his arm about her waist, leaning near to plant a quick kiss upon the corner of her smiling mouth.

His eyes, deep and warm, and blue as the ocean, spoke volumes before he opened his mouth and softly breathed, "My parents have spoken of sailing into the West soon."

"So your mother has confided to me," she returned, smiling at the memory of their camp the night before, when Queen Aseaiel, ever the dutiful chaperone, had come blithely up behind the two of them as they strayed on the edge of camp beyond the firelight. She had slipped between them as if she belonged, and shooing her suddenly unhappy son back to camp she had linked arms with Lalaith, continuing to stroll along with her as if nothing were out of place.

"Is that what she told you, last night?" Legolas pleaded quietly, his lips twitching with good natured chagrin.

"Yes," Lalaith smiled, lowering her eyes. "And that if we are willing, you and I will remain as king and queen until after the last of our people sail."

Legolas' eyes grew deep and thoughtful at these words as he nodded somberly. "What do you wish?"

Lalaith smiled at his words, at the warmth in his voice as she studied the crumbled path of earth and pebbles passing slowly beneath their feet.

"To stay by your side, wherever you are. That is my greatest wish," she returned. "Though my heart longs also, to remain in this land, until our mortal friends have passed from it. I could not bear to bid farewell to Pippin while he still lives."

Legolas drew in a long sigh at this, and pressed a brief kiss to her brow. She could feel him smiling gently. Slowly, she lifted her eyes and met his.

Legolas' face, at once both youthful and manly, bore a timid smile, his eyes soft, and unguarded. "That is my wish as well," he admitted softly. "We will remain then. And sail together, at the last, into the West."

Lalaith's mouth parted softly at the look in his eyes, and drew up in a slow, gentle smile.

But her eyes turned forward of a sudden as Legolas' did, when the column ahead of them came around a sharp bend in the trail and stopped unexpectedly.

With an expression of muted alarm, Legolas dropped Rana's reins, and strode swiftly toward the head of the column. With furrowed brow, Lalaith softly patted the horses' necks to reassure them, then catching up her skirts, glided swiftly after her betrothed, her eyes growing wide with curiosity as she reached the head of the column where Aragorn stood, softly reassuring Brego who was pawing at the earth as if suddenly nervous. Shadowfax seemed unmoved, but Arwen's mount, a lithe, white mare, snorted softly, tossing her head briefly though the gentle words of the Elven woman as Arwen bent over her back and stroked her slim neck, soothed the frightened creature.

Lalaith traded a worried glance with Aragorn before they turned their eyes forward and studied the two beggars who were trundling along the road before them, the cause of the horses' agitation. One was bent over a broken staff, rags of dirty white hanging about his bent frame, ragged grey hair blocking what seemed to be a bearded face and at his heels crept another beggar, clad in ragged black garments, slouching and whining, dark locks hiding his own features. So familiar they seemed! And it was but a moment later, when she realized why as Gandalf spoke.

"Well, Saruman!" the wizard cried. "Where are you going?"

At Gandalf's greeting, the bent figure paused in the midst of his hobbling, and lifted his head. Saruman's dark eyes came into view, and Lalaith felt her heart grow chill.

"What is that to you?" Saruman demanded, his voice harsh and clear. "Are you here to make a mock of me? Are you not content with my ruin?"

"You know the answers," Gandalf returned with a deep sigh. "No and no. Were I to choose, I would not be your enemy. But it appears that our paths have gone different ways, and so we are at odds. Though it is no pleasure to me. I feel nothing but sorrow for you, Saruman, and pity."

For a moment, Saruman's eyes kindled at this, and he barked, coughing as he did, "I do not wish for your pity, and your sad smiles! I prefer your frowns."

"So it seems," returned Gandalf with a low sigh. "Yet still I mourn for you, Saruman, and for what you could have been. As I mourn for you, Gríma Wormtongue, and your sister. You need not stay with him, surely you know this?"

The other beggar, who had sat down upon the ground, lifted a pale face at this, and eyed Gandalf without speaking.

"Where is she?" Gandalf asked, his voice low, and almost gentle. "Where is Greta?"

"Dead, I do not doubt!" wailed Saruman before Gríma could speak, and the dark haired beggar glared at him where he sat, dejected and weary, in the middle of the trail.

"She said we were shameful and weak," mumbled Gríma, where he sat upon the ground, his eyes down. "She said that we slowed her, and she wished no longer to journey with us. She went on ahead, along this path, northward."

"And last night," cut in Saruman, a cruel gleam in his eye, "I heard wolves howling in the dark, in the foothills. Doubtless they have slain her. Fitting end, to a worthless handmaid."

Saruman cackled, and his voice was as the dry rasping of clattering bones as his narrowed eyes scanning the mounted Elves beyond Gandalf. His dark gaze trailed across Galadriel and Celeborn, and past Aragorn and Arwen. His glare grated over Lalaith, and she shuddered inwardly at the chill glance of his eye, though she met his dark gaze boldly before his glare moved on to Legolas beside her. Saruman sneered as his gaze traveled past them, though when his eyes came to rest upon Calassë tall and shining upon her mount, his eyes stopped. The sneer fell from his face, and his already wane flesh grew all the more pale. Darkness bitter than before, drew itself across his countenance.

"You," he hissed darkly. "I know you! Cravenly slave, Burza! Do these fine people you ride among know who you truly are?"

"We know who she is, Saruman!" Gimli crowed loudly. "The question is, do _you_ know?"

The Dwarf brandished his axe menacingly, but at a look from Calassë's pleading eyes, lowered the blade again, grumbling his discontent at Saruman beneath his breath.

"This is Calassë, of Gondolin," Elrohir called out, his voice strong and undaunted as he eased his mount forward, his eyes sparking suddenly with challenge as he gazed levelly upon the broken wizard. "A pure and noble maiden of the House of the Golden Flower. And she has risen above the darkness. It is not a part of her."

"Burza is naught but a filthy orc," Saruman seethed.

"My name is not Burza," Calassë called out, her voice clear and keen as she turned her mount beside Elrohir's so that she might look upon the angry beggar. Her gaze was unwavering. "My name is Calassë. And you have no power over me."

Saruman glared at this, though he seemed no longer to have anything to say. And he spun away, kicking at Gríma upon the ground.

"Get up, you idiot!" he shouted. "Turn about! If these fine folk are going our way, we shall take another. Get on, or I shall leave you behind, to die upon the teeth of the wargs, like that worthless strumpet!"

A look of wild hatred seized Wormtongue's eyes as these words. "My sister was a child, once!" he wailed pitifully at Saruman's back even as he slouched after the shuffling wizard.

"Paugh, just as you once were, indolent fool. Yet you are both fallen. Had I not taken your service, your own foolishness and hers still would have broken the both of you!" Saruman scoffed without turning about as he drew past Lalaith where she sat high upon Hasufel's back. "Now do as I say, and follow me."

A darkness deep and poisonous broiled within Gríma's eyes then, and Lalaith began slowly to shrink away from the ragged dark clad beggar as his eyes flitted from her to the fallen wizard, and back again. And with speed borne of mindless rage, he snatched a blade from within the folds of one of his ragged sleeves, hidden before now, and with a cry, leapt toward Saruman.

"Gríma!" Gandalf shouted in alarm as Shadowfax wheeled about, but the ragged creature did not heed him, plunging the blade deep into Saruman's back, once and then again.

Saruman stiffened and jerked erect as he let out a wild cry, garbled with blood in his throat before he fell, crumpled upon the ground.

With a yell of fury, Gríma spun blindly toward the Elves, his eyes darkened with rage, the knife, still dripping blood, raised in his angry fist. The twang of bowstrings sounded and he staggered suddenly, his angry expression turning into one of pained shock. The blade dropped harmlessly from his fingers and his mouth fell open as his gaze fell to the several arrows that quivered in his body. A thin line of bloody drool trailed down from his mouth before he groaned softly, and tipped backward. His body struck the earth heavily near where Saruman lay. Upon their ponies, Merry and Pippin, their faces written with indignation mixed with sorrow, lowered their small bows as did the Elves about them.

Gríma stirred once, moaned softly, pitifully, and then lay still, his eyes open to the sky.

In silence, Lalaith staggered against Legolas who had come to her side and grasped her arm in his warm, sturdy grip. She clung to him tightly, her heart heavy, staring in dismay over the two fallen bodies as the Elves about them released a collective breath. Above the body of Saruman, a grey mist seemed to gather and rise, forming above the dead wizard like a pale, shrouded figure. For a moment, it wavered, looking to the West, but, as if in despair, the shrouded mist bent away, and with a sigh, dissolved into nothing.


	56. Chapter 55

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 55

August 7, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

The morning was soft and blue, the tree shrouded rills about her swathed in a layer of soft mist as the water of the Bruinen splashed brightly about the legs of the horses, flinging drops of water about, like a cascade of diamonds. Several drops struck her gown, seeping through onto her legs, but Lalaith could barely feel the cold of the water, for her head was lifted, her bright eyes drinking in the dearly familiar sights about her, her ears tuned to the distant sound of singing washing over them from up the valley as Hasufel with a loud clatter of water and crunching pebbles, surged up bank, the path growing level again as it continued on its way through the trees, ever nearing her home. The distant whisper of the falls, echoed down the valley like a sweet memory, and Lalaith's heart swelled with sweet emotion.

She closed her eyes with a soft shudder, letting the sweet gladness enwrap her like the soft, warm cloak Legolas had gently draped about her shoulders earlier that morning after they had broken camp beneath the soft blue light of distant dawn. So many months it had been since the Fellowship set out, and yet it seemed as if she had not left. So many things had happened, yet so much was still the same! She could feel the tears in her eyes pressing from beneath closed lids as Hasufel trotted along, following his own head up a low rise.

"Lalaith," Legolas' voice reached her, soft and reverent, yet fraught with strength as well, and she lifted her eyes, to his, blinking past her tears.

"Look," he urged gently, gesturing with his head toward the crest of the ridge they were rising, and she blinked her eyes swiftly, turning her head forward as the valley of Imladris cradled by high green mountains, came into her view, bathed in the golden light of the morning that spilled over the eastern ridges of the mountains. Sprays of sunlight and washed the high peaked roof of the Last Homely House in a shower of gold, and at the sight of it, a throb of emotion caught in her throat.

Lalaith shivered, blinking her tears swiftly away at the beloved sight. "Ai, Legolas-," was all she could choke out as he caught her hand within his, and squeezed gently.

She turned, meeting his gaze, and saw in his eyes, his shared joy. "Come," he urged her softly, and side by side, they rode on, their hands clasped as the feet of Hasufel and Arod clipped over the arch of the stone bridge, the endless roar of the frothing river beneath as it plunged downward, joyfully welcome in her ears.

...

"Lalaith! Lalaith!"

Lalaith turned away from greeting a fellow maiden to turn to smile down upon Sam's dear little face as he came trotting near her as dear Bilbo, trundling slowly, with a wide smile upon his wrinkled face, came up behind him, leaning heavily upon his cane. The two Hobbits had come from the direction of the stables, and Lalaith tipped her head, wondering at the bright, flustered look in Sam's eyes.

"Um, beggin' your-, your pardon, but Bilbo's just shown me-!" Sam blustered, unable to speak clearly from the excitement in his voice, and Lalaith wondered at the spattering of happy tears upon his cheeks.

"Come, come!" the stout little Hobbit ordered her.

"What's the fuss, Sam?" Frodo queried, as he with Merry and Pippin turned away from Gimli who was chatting amiably with Calassë and a small number of other maidens who were chirping enthusiastically over the new maiden.

"It's, it's-!" Sam stammered, and Lalaith and the three other Hobbits glanced to Bilbo for an explanation.

"Go on with Sam before the poor lad bursts," Bilbo laughed merrily, shuffling near, and catching a gnarled hand to Lalaith's.

"Go on," The aging Hobbit urged her, squeezing gently. "Let him show you."

Lalaith smiled down upon Bilbo. Of all those who had remained in Imladris, she had most looked forward to seeing him, as had Frodo. She had remembered the warm joy that washed through her as she passed beneath the gate, and saw again his smiling eyes as he stood in the midst of the waiting Elves who sang a song of return and welcome. She had started in brief surprise at how quickly he had aged in only a year, but she had cast the feeling aside quickly as she leapt from the saddle, and lowered herself to her knees that she might embrace her old friend.

Lalaith pushed away the aching grief that returned for a moment, and simmered in her heart as she studied his wrinkled hand, spotted with age. Quickly though, she pusehd it away and chose instead to focus on the merriment in his eyes.

"Go on!" he ordered again, and with a last squeeze and a glad smile, she released his hand and turned away, hurrying down the path toward the stables where the four Hobbits had already gone, Sam stammering incoherently the whole way.

"Look Lalaith, look!" he demanded, gesturing to one of the wooden stalls as Lalaith ducked into the warm shadows of the stable, and her heart warmed at the sight of the brown little pony that stood there, contentedly munching on a manger of oats.

"Bill!" Sam choked between tears rising in his eyes as he opened the stable door, and went in, touching a hand to the pony's neck. Bill whickered softly, and nudged Sam companionably in the shoulder. "Bill came back here! He came back here to Rivendell! He's alright!"

Pippin let out a soft whistle.

"So he didn't go back to old Ferny," Merry murmured softly.

"Smart horse!" Frodo commented with a grin, to which Pippin and Merry nodded in agreement.

Lalaith merely smiled. She glanced down, trading a glad look with Pippin as Sam suddenly lost himself to joyful tears. The stout little Hobbit flung his arms about the pony's neck, and buried his face against Bill's furry shoulder.

...

Lalaith sighed as she strolled along the pillared portico of the Last Homely House, her mind filled with warm memories, as she made her slow way to her own chambers. Her hand trailed lightly over the balustrade as she moved, her eyes half closed as she drank in the familiar scents of her home, listening to the quiet, familiar whisper of the falls surrounding Imladris wash over her, soothing her soul. Lifting her eyes to the sky, she studied the dark blue dome that faded gradually to a line of lighter blue in the west, where streaks of red and yellow clouds bid farewell to the departed sun. In the west, Eärendil winked down as other stars here and there began to prick the night sky.

Aside from the distant chirp of night birds, she was alone. And though she was weary from the flurried activity of the day, she did not wish to sleep. Not yet.

It had been a week since her return to the sheltered valley, and the time had passed, as in a blur. Never before had the vale of Imladris been filled with such flurry of activity! But, Lalaith smiled to herself, never before had there been so many weddings in preparation so near to each other. But at last, all was ready, now.

With a low sigh, she paused, pressing both hands to the balustrade, and gazing out into the cool blue shadows of twilight. Her gown was beautiful, white as pearl and ivory, and Lalaith smiled to think of it, the feel of the cloth, soft as cloud her fingers. And Legolas' robes, though she had not seen them yet, were no less exquisite the seamstresses had promised her their eyes dancing, and laughter upon their lips even as they worked, weaving and sewing with little rest.

Lalaith hugged her arms to herself, gazing pleadingly up at the night sky. How she wished the night would pass swiftly, and the morning would come!

As she gazed upon Eärendil, as the star winked and shimmered across the vast distance, a mild sensation, as a faint warning, trailed across her heart. It was nothing like the hot pain that had knifed across the back of her shoulder whenever evil was near as they journeyed on their quest, yet Lalaith wondered if it did not have a purpose, for it seemed to trail down from the stars themselves, a faint admonishing whisper.

Mother, what do you wish for me to know? her thoughts pleaded, but no gentle words came into her mind as often they had, before.

She sighed, and her eyes trailed over the innocent night shadows of the sleepy vale, at the river that glimmered and sparkled away through the trees. Perhaps it was no more than her imagination. But perhaps-, she drew in a chilled breath. Was something evil still out there, far away in the shadows of the night, watching the lights of Imladris from afar, and wishing evil upon those who dwelt there? She shuddered at the cold thought, a fragmented, childish fear though it surely was. How she wished Legolas was-,

As if in answer to her unspoken desire, two arms drew silently about her from behind, and two warm hands covered her own where they rested upon the silver railing. She shivered at the warmth of his firm body against hers

"Legolas," she breathed, closing her eyes, and leaning back against his firm shoulder as she drew her arms to herself, letting him circle his arms about her all the more securely.

"Morning will come sooner, my lady, were you to take your rest," he whispered softly against her ear, his breath washing across the peaked tip of her ear, and sending shivers of warmth pulsing hotly through her slender frame.

"Then why are you not at rest yourself, my lord?" she replied, her voice light and teasing.

Legolas laughed softly at her words, and circled his arms all the more firmly about her. "I must confess, I am as you are, for I do not wish to rest, though I ought to." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I cannot sleep, for thoughts of youLalaith nin."

He swallowed softly, his voice hushed with wonder, "For before Eärendil shines down upon us from the western sky again, we will belong to each other. All need for decorum and restraint between us, will be-, gone."

Slowly, Lalaith turned within the circle of his arms, to meet his eyes as he towered above her. His gaze was soft and shadowed, even as his eyes caught the light of the stars in them, warm with tender adoration.

Releasing a low sigh, she leaned in near to him, resting her head against the warmth of his shoulder, her face turned outward, gazing down the long shadowed portico, empty and silent as starlight spilled in through the pillars.

His arms about her, strong and sure, and the warmth of his hot flesh through the cloth between them, addled her mind, and she could not think, did not wish to, and she struggled to rise from the warm thoughtless bliss she longed to fall into.

"We should part," she murmured.

"Yes, we should," Legolas agreed in a whisper even as his arms drew more tightly about her.

For a long moment, they stood thusly, both knowing what they must do, though neither was willing to leave the other.

"I want to kiss you," Legolas hissed huskily into the darkness, "more than I have ever wanted to. But I dare not."

"If you were to kiss me," Lalaith gulped softly, "neither of us would wish for it to stop."

Legolas nodded against her hair, saying nothing as with a sigh of deep reluctance, his arms loosened her, and he stepped back with visible effort. Lalaith pressed back against the balustrade, catching her hands behind her against the cool metal, her fingers tightening as if to restrain herself from following him. Their eyes fixed intently upon each other as they each struggled to subdue their swift breathing.

The space between them fairly pulsed with quelled passion, and Lalaith shuddered, her heart wrenching in sweet agony as Legolas forced himself back another step.

"You must go, now," she breathed.

"Yes, my lady," he returned, his soft voice fraught with endearing humility, his brows furrowed in sweet torment above eyes that shone in the starlight.

"We are indeed well met, dear friends!" A man's voice fraught with bright enthusiasm echoed along the portico, and both Legolas and Lalaith started, then turned toward the approach of two Elves as Haldir with Lothirien upon his arm moved softly along the shadowed portico. Their eyes were brimming with mischievous understanding as they drew nearer, the tiny swell at last visible beneath the cloth of Lothirien's loosened gown where their infant grew within the protected silence of her womb. She and Haldir fairly glowed with the contentment of coming parenthood, and Lalaith drew in a swift breath of pleasure at their undisguised happiness.

"Greetings to you both!" Lothirien called out merrily, her fingers running lightly over the small curve of her belly.

Legolas nodded respectfully at Lothirien's approach. "My lady," he offered politely. "And my lord, Haldir."

"Prince of Eryn Lasgalen," Haldir greeted with a lift of his brows, his tone bearing the dear familiar haughty tones it always had, though there was warmth as well. And at the blessedly memorable arrogance of his knowing grin, Lalaith flushed and ducked her head, as Legolas shifted his weighted, and studied the Marchwarden of the Golden Wood, his brows raised as he waited.

Lothirien stifled a soft giggle at the men's expressions, and she and Lalaith traded a humored glance before Haldir finally ducked his head, laughing in self consternation.

"Might I have a word with your betrothed?" Haldir offered, again, more meekly, now.

Legolas traded a glance with Lalaith at these words. His eyes were tender as before, his smile tugging upon the corners of his mouth. "Of course, Lord Haldir," he offered, drawing one more reluctant step away from Lalaith as a sigh drew up from his lungs.

"And might I have the pleasure of your company, my prince, Legolas, if there are no other duties you must see to?" Lothirien queried casually. "My little Halmir, I am afraid, is drawing much strength away from me. Where once there was only the warm promise of coming life, his dear little fëa has arrived, and there is much fire in him!" She traded a pleased look with Haldir at these words, and finished softly, "It is time I return to our chambers, to take my rest."

"It would be my honor, my lady," Legolas returned agreeably, offering the lady his arm, which she gratefully took.

Lalaith glanced up into Haldir's dancing eyes as Legolas led Lothirien away on his arm, and she grinned as Haldir offered her his arm in turn.

"So," she began, as he turned her away, and began to lead her in the opposite direction away from Legolas. She glanced back over her shoulder, to see the Prince of the Green Wood glacing pleadingly over his shoulder even as Lothirien busily led him away. "What was the matter so urgent which you wished to speak of, with me?"

"Ai," he sighed aggrievedly as the portico turned round a corner, and Legolas' plaintive backward glances were lost to her. "There was no urgent matter, I must confess. It was only a ruse that my lady and I quickly devised, when we saw you-," he cleared his throat with effort, and Lalaith ducked her head, coloring.

"We had no intention of doing anything contemptuous, Haldir," she stammered softly.

"I know, I know!" Haldir laughed, though his voice was gentle, mindful of her discomfiture, and his voice grew soft. "Our last parting the day before our wedding, was rather-, difficult as well, Lalaith," he sighed sympathetically. "And we wished to ease the pain for you."

Lalaith smirked at this confession, and with her hand upon his arm, drew him to a gentle stop.

Haldir turned to her, a question in his eyes, as she smiled up at his dear, familiar features.

"Thank you, Haldir," she murmured softly. "Not only for this, but for all that you have done. You and Lothirien, both. From the beginning of our friendship until now."

"It was the least my lady and I could do for you." He cleared his throat softly. "For I am yet indebted to you."

He studied her eyes a moment longer, seeing the questions in them, and gently offered, "I remember very little of my time in the Halls of Mandos, but as time passes, faint recollections return more and more to me, and I remember now, that my return was due to great sacrifice on your part."

He turned forward again, and began to walk but Lalaith's steps were heavy beside him.

"How?" she queried softly drawing back upon his arm, until he stopped again. "I would not have had a hand in your return. It was the will of Eru, and of the Valar. And I have not been in the Blessed Realm since I was an infant. I remember nothing-,"

She paused, as faint, misty faces passed through her memory, gentle, kindly faces, Namo Mandos, and Vairë the Weaver, as well as another face, a boyish face, strangely familiar to her. They had been speaking to her-,

Lalaith sighed and furrowed her brow. Such a memory she did not know she had, hidden in the depths of her thoughts. Haldir began to walk slowly again, and this time, she did not protest as he led her onward, toward the door to her chambers, where a lamp, lit and waiting for her, shone through the latticework above her doorway.

As they went, Haldir softly murmured, "There is little one remembers at the first, after returning from those great halls, whether one returns to life as Glorfindel did, and I, or for those fëar who are-, reborn-,"

She turned again to him as he paused before the door of her chambers, and drew it open for her, warm lamplight spilling out on them. But she did not go in immediately.

"Would it not be a marvelous thing indeed, if one of the great Elven lords of old, were reborn as your son," she sighed. "Gil-Galad himself, perhaps, or Beleg Cúthalion."

Haldir let out a short breath at this, shaking his head.

"It would only be right, for such a fëa to be born to parents who have both been fearless warriors," Lalaith assured him, placing her hand upon his arm. She smiled. "As well as faithful friends."

He met her eyes, his smile growing to match her own.

"You are a valiant and gentle lady, Lalaith Elerrina," he murmured softly. "And as dear as a sister to me."

"And you are as dear as a brother, Haldir," she returned as she stepped through the door, and turned to face him. "I am honored to know you."

"May you and Legolas share such joy as Lothirien and I know," he offered softly. "And may the blessings of the Valar rest upon your union, for all the life of Arda." His smile softened as he finished in a near whisper, "And beyond."

"Thank you, Haldir," she murmured gently.

"And thank you, Lalaith."

He touched a hand to her face, his fingers gentle in spite of their calluses. And then with a final smile of farewell, he stepped out into the cool shadows of night, and shut the door behind him.

She turned away and fell against the wood of the door as the latch fell into its place. Haldir's footsteps echoed softly away down the veranda as she studied her room, lit in the steady flame of a glowing lamp of silver and crystal one of the servants had left upon the small table beside her bed, and her eyes trailed slowly about the chamber, flitting over her divan, her dressing table and the small silver chair beside it, her wardrobe, the thin curtain that led back into her bathing room, and again to her bed and the small table-,

She swallowed at a lump forming in her throat at the sight of the silver flower still within the small vase on the table beside her bed, dried now, though no less beautiful than the day so long ago now, when Legolas had given it to her, and had first declared his love for her.

This was the room that had been hers from childhood, that had heard the secret whispers of her maiden dreams-,

With a sigh, she glided over to her bed and sat wearily upon it, studying the small flower once more beneath the flickering light of the lamp that sat beside it, reaching a finger out to delicately touch a crinkled petal. And as she did, her eye caught sight of the crumpled, dusty remains of the flower that Boromir had given her the day of her uncle's-, Lalaith stopped herself with a smile, the day of Ada's Council. The dust of the flower had remained untouched from the departure of the Fellowship, for none had come into her chambers, and since her return, she had not had the heart to brush the dust of the flower away into oblivion. And so she had left it unchange where it had crumpled, yet-,

On a sudden impluse, Lalaith scooped her hand beneath the rim of the small table, and with her other, brushed the crumbled dust into her cupped palm. Rising carefully, she moved with swift though level steps to the door, and drew it open, the light of her small lamp spilling out into the purple shadows of the night.

She moved to the railing, and with the fingers of her free hand against the cool smooth balustrade, tipped her cupped palm, so that the dust, like a soft silver mist, riding upon the still cool air of the night, flitted downward in a haze of silver dust. Small new flowers were pressing up out of the soilbelow the balustrade, and the dust of the crumpled flower as it settled on the new young flowers, seemed to shimmer like tiny diamonds upon their leaves, and upon the rich brown earth about them. Lalaith smiled, the sight of it somehow comforting to her.

"May you find light dear Boromir, wherever you are," she whispered to the soft night shadows. And with a sigh, she turned, and moved back into her softly lighted room, shutting the door behind her back. With a light heart, she moved to her wardrobe, peeling her gown over her head, and laying it across the back of a nearby chair as she drew off her underwrappings as well, and reached for a thin, white sleeping gown hanging against the side of her wardrobe beside her dresses.

Her heart beat quickened as she pulled it over her head at the cool touch of the thin cloth against her flesh. And she shivered slightly as she returned to her bed, and drew back the covers, slipping wearily beneath the cool sheets.

She reached over, puffing out the flame of the small lamp beside her with a soft breath, and settled back against her pillow as she turned her gaze to the cool blue shadows of her ceiling with a sigh, willing herself to fall into her dreams.

Tears touched her eyes briefly as she studied the arching ceiling above her head, the dear familiar features of this room that had been hers since she had been little more than an infant.

The walls, draped in blue shadows, wavered and grew faint as her weariness washed over her. The memories of her maidenhood, all that had occured in her life, from childhood until now, passed through her thoughts, this sheltered valley where she had grown from child to woman, where she had felt her first heart stirrings for Legolas-, All of it would be a dear and cherished memory to her, forever.

"But now I go on, to even greater joy," she whispered quietly to the stillness. "He is mine. And I am his. He loves me! And I love him. I love him-,"

Her words faded in the silence as she sighed and faded into a realm of sweet sleep. The soft vision of her dreamscape filled her mind, and all was bliss but for a shadow in the distant corner of her sleeping thoughts. Something was coming, something that hated her, that wished to see her come to harm. But the shadow was distant and faint, and her sweet dreams were full of hope and life. And Legolas waited for her beneath a bower of flowers, and she forgot all that troubled her.


	57. Chapter 56 Part 1

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 56, part 1

September 5, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Arwen strolled with hurried calm along the sheltered veranda, her feet barely feeling the cool of the stone tiles beneath her, though they were yet bare. The morning was still young. The sky cool and blue but for a hint of distant clouds in the north, pink and gold before the trailing rays of the sun which had not yet shown her face above the eastern mountains.

She shuddered against a brief chill as a morning wind swept along the veranda, and she missed the comforting strength of Aragorn's arms, and the warm, sacred haven of their bed. But today was Lalaith's wedding day. And while Galadriel would act in the place of the maiden's mother in the ceremony, Arwen did not wish to miss the chance to aid her beloved kinswoman in the bride's preparations. Her thoughts raced merrily along as her feet scurried in swift silence. She wished above all, to be the first to Lalaith's chambers to waken her on this most blessed day. A soft smile came to her lips. Her sister was being married today. Her sister. So indeed, Lalaith had always been.

Arwen sighed plaintively to herself, lost in happy thoughts, though her feet came to an abrupt halt as her ears caught upon the distant sound of a baying wolf. The sound was far and away, faint, and perhaps to mortal ears, it would have gone unheard.

Arwen had heard the cry of wolves before, but this struck her as a strange thing. Were wolves not night waking creatures? And this beast was calling out even as a golden sliver of the sun touched the tips of the eastern peaks.

The balustrade was cool to her fingertips as Arwen caught her hands against the silver railing and strained her eyes and ears westward and south, from whence the sound had come. But she could not see the slightest shadow moving there in the distance, nor did the sound come again to her ears.

Arwen sighed and shrugged to herself. Doubtless, it was nothing. She smiled again. And she had other things, far more important to see to. Turning away, she caught up her skirts again, and hurried all the more swiftly toward Lalaith's chambers.

...

The arched ceiling of the chamber flickered with the light of many lamps, and echoed with the hum of women's voices as Lalaith stood in the midst of them, patiently allowing them their final pampering.

Her hand shook slightly as she touched her fingers to the gown her friends and kinswomen had adorned her in, sliding slowly from the cloth of the dress to the chain of the medallion that disappeared beneath the scooped neckline. The jeweled metal was cool against her flesh.

Lalaith sighed and dropped her hand to her side, her eyes fixed upon the gaze of the maiden in the mirror. Her heated skin was flushed in a delicate shade of rose pink, her color heightened by the cream white of the gown she wore which shimmered like a cloud, as if the very fabric had been woven from the shining threads of a nimbus.

Intricate clasps of mithril gathered the cloth at her shoulders where it scooped below her throat in soft glittering folds exposing the soft ridges of her collar bones, and tumbled down her arms in generous swathes, like the shimmering wings of a delicate, white bird. The fabric clung about her young body in a way that accented the beauty of her maidenly form, smooth to her slender hips where hung a loose belt woven of gold and silver threads twining in a pattern of curling vines, the trailing ties of the belt hanging loose down the front of her gown as it flowed down her legs in folds of shimmering white.

Legolas would be no less majestic in his own robes, fashioned to complement her own, Lalaith thought with a small smile before she furrowed her browas a brief wave of childish impertinence seized her heart. Curse the foolish traditions that had kept them apart, all day! She had not even seen him, not once! But now, in but a few moments she would, at last, and Lalaith's heart tumbled in anticipation for the coming feast when her eyes would at last rest upon him. And then they would they would join each other beneath the bower with Lord Thranduil and her grandmother to join their hands and bless them, uniting them at last as husband and wife, before their people, and in the sight of the Valar, and Ilúvatar.

"I felt as flustered as you, the day I wed Thranduil," Aseaiel murmured gently, smiling at her in the mirror where the queen of Eryn Lasgalen and Galadriel sat by with Lothirien, the three of them working over a shining sheet of gossamer that rested in the laps of the three, the ladies looking on now and again with merry eyes at the last of the preparations. Arwen and Calassë both adorned in flowing silken gowns of dark blue, had yet to complete the delicate plaits that draped about Lalaith's head that were to join at the back, and trail down in a single braid over the golden cascade of hair that remained hanging free. Miriel who wore a soft gown of rust colored red, and Ithilwen clad in the soft greens of her home in Eryn Lasgalen hovered near, waiting in patient anxiety for the task to be completed, that they might place the twined circlet of mithril into her hair that would mark her as a princess of the Green Wood. The circlet rested in Miriel's hands, wrapped in a cloth and cradled as if it were a priceless treasure. Indeed it was, Lalaith smiled to herself, gazing at its shimmer in the mirror.

"As was I, when Celeborn and I were bound beneath the trees of Doriath," Galadriel sighed softly, her voice that that of a besotted maiden.

Lothirien smiled pertly to herself, caressing the small curve of her belly with the fingertips of one hand. "All new brides are," she murmured.

Galadriel smiled softly toward Lothirien, and glanced over the folds of gossamer to the queen of Eryn Lasgalen with a thoughtful look in her eye. "Yet you, my friend Aseaiel, had not the luxury of peace that these maidens have, now."

"Indeed, my lady," Arwen murmured, her voice soft and thoughtful as her careful hands, and Calassë's met at last, and the maiden of Gondolin surrendered the flaxen strands to Gondor's queen and Arwen continued working swiftly, her task nearly completed. "As I have been taught, you wed our Lord Thranduil but one day before he marched to battle. You had no great feast, nor lavish celebration as is afforded lovers who are blessed to wed in times of peace."

"You were taught rightly I fear," Aseaiel sighed thoughtfully, pausing briefly in her work. "His father and mother, as well as mine, did not dwell in Arda, and it was a time of dark uncertainty in the days before the Last Alliance against Sauron. I had loved Thranduil long, though without hope. For though we had known each other from childhood, I was no great lady, and thought myself beneath him. But when I learned he was to depart for what I feared was certain death, I went to him before he marched away. I wept like a child as I spoke to him of my love, yet he did not censure me. In truth, he took me in his arms and wept with me, confessing as he did, that he had long loved me, as well."

"And you were wed, that very day," Calassë murmured dreamily, her eyes large and reverent where she had dropped upon a nearby chair, gazing worshipfully up at the queen of Eryn Lasgalen. "The day before he marched away to battle."

Aseaiel nodded, beaming toward the maiden of Gondolin, before trading a soft look with Lothirien. "It was but a brief ritual, with only he and I to speak our pledges to each other. No others but Ilúvatar Himself, and a small number of our closest friends, hastily gathered, witnessed our vows."

"But it was no less hallowed in the eye of the Valar, than this blessed union," Galadriel breathed softly, a thoughtful look in her eyes as she traded a brief smile with Lalaith's reflection.

"Indeed," Aseaiel agreed quietly. "Yet how glad I am for these dear young ones, that they might wed in a time of peace, and safety, and in the midst of beauty."

Lalaith met the gentle gaze of her future mother in law in the mirror, and the two traded a tender smile.

"There, I am finished," Arwen announced, stepping back from Lalaith, and making way as Miriel moved forward, and with Ithilwen's aide, carefully placed the shimmering, circlet into the twined gold of her hair, where it tucked smoothly beneath the delicate braids, the shimmering mithril curling gracefully across her fair, white brow.

Lalaith smiled at her friends as they completed their task and grinned as they stepped back.

Aseaiel stood then and moved forward, feigning to examine the maidens' work in the mirror as she touched a hand to Lalaith's shoulder and murmured in her ear, "And your lover shall not have to leave your bed on the morrow, when the sun comes."

Lalaith ducked her head, flushing softly at this as Aseaiel brushed a motherly hand against her cheek, and moved back. Lalaith turned her head and lifted her eyes meeting Aseaiel's to offer her a silent smile of gratitude.

"Shall we go, now?" Galadriel murmured, and Lalaith felt the cool grip of her grandmother's hand slide into her own.

"Yes," she sighed, and turned at last, meeting Galadriel's gaze. The lady smiled, a gentle golden smile and Lalaith's heart felt nothing but ease as the Lady of the Golden Wood, flanked about by the shining faces of the other women, led her out the door onto the pillared veranda. The warmth of the setting sun washed about her, the sky streaked in striations of red and gold in the west where the sun, glowing like a copper disk, lowered in a blaze of glory toward the purple hills.

A young maiden of no greater than fifty years, one of the maid servants of Aseaiel from Eryn Lasgalen, was standing outside the door in an attitude of weary, girlish boredom, yet she came swiftly to attention at the appearance of the ladies. Her eyes turned to Aseaiel expectantly as the women emptied onto the portico.

"Greetings, Laerien," Aseaiel greeted the maiden cordially, and cast a brief, pleading glance toward Galadriel that did not go unnoticed to Lalaith.

"My lady," the girl returned, glancing nervously toward Lalaith.

"Come, Lalaith, do you approve of these garlands?" Galadriel queried suddenly, leading her charge away from the others to inspect the twined flowers wreathed along the railings of the portico as it marched away down the edge of the House and curved about, hidden partly by high green trees. "I hoped you would like the mix of colors."

Away and down from the house, there were hanging lamps swaying from the trees in the garden below the Hall of Fire, where Lalaith could see the Elves through the trees beginning to gather about the tables that had encircled a tree bordered glade and hear their merry talk as they awaited her wedding. Her wedding!

"I do," she returned, touching a hand to the plaited rope of flowers, running her fingers over the petals of one, her gaze focused on the flower. "I think they're beautiful." But Lalaith could not help but overhear the hurried words between the young girl and the queen of the Green Wood behind her, and she turned curious eyes to glance back at them.

"Yes, Laerien, it is ready," Aseaiel murmured softly, pushing the folded gossamer veil into the maiden's hands. "You know-," Aseaiel cast what seemed a brief, nervous glance toward Lalaith who quickly dropped her eyes, "where to take it."

"Yes, my lady," the girl Laerien returned, casting an equally covert glance toward the young bride before glancing again toward her mistress. "My mother says the preparations are nearly finished."

"Tell your mother she has done her task admirably." Aseaiel finished warmly. "As have you all."

Laerien smiled. "Thank you, my lady. I will tell her, and the others."

And with that, Laerien turned and cast a brief smile toward Lalaith, a smile that made a poor effort of concealing the secret that she hid behind it as the girl turned and hurried away, the folded swathe of gossamer cradled in her arms.

Lalaith dropped her eyes again to the flower beneath her fingers, struggling to hide her smirk, understanding well enough that the curtain of gossamer was bound to the chambers that she and Legolas would share that night, tucked away in some hidden corner of this fair vale. But she said nothing, wishing they not know her understanding of their secret.

With her eyes downturned, Lalaith failed to note the quiet smile that graced Galadriel's face.

"Come," Galadriel encouraged at last, her voice low and soft. "Let us take you to your betrothed."

And with these words, Lalaith's heart lifted, light as a soaring bird, and with Galadriel's hand clutched in her own, and with the other women surrounding her, Lalaith moved down the portico with slow and measured steps, away into the cool blue shadows of the deepening evening.

...

Legolas perused himself in the high mirror, studying the creamy white robe that fit snuggly over his shoulders, and hung open down the center of his chest, revealing the jeweled necklace that Galadriel had given to his keeping for Lalaith in anticipation for this day. The twined jewels upon their chain, rested against the cream tunic which was belted loosely at the waist, hanging over breeches of the same color. Calf high boots of soft, sun bleached leather, completed his wedding attire. He tugged softly on the gold and silver broidered hem of his robe, though the robe already hung smoothly over his chest. He drew in a deep and shaking breath, wishing to still the hammering of his heart, though it did little. He glanced in the mirror at the other men over his shoulder who sat about the room, or stood pacing, waiting for him. Elladan who wore a soft, rust colored robe, sat upon a bench near the door, answering in hushed tones the questions Pippin posed to him concerning the fare they would expect to eat at the feast. Pippin, like the other Hobbits about the room, had donned a merrily colored robe fashioned for an Elfling, though it suited him well. Merry sat nearby, though he did not join the conversation, content to tilt his head back, and stare at the ceiling, occasionally blowing soft breaths out between his lips as his hairy little feet swung back and forth. Bilbo sat a space away from Merry, twisting his little walking staff in his gnarled hands, and glancing occasionally at the Legolas in the mirror. At Bilbo's shoulder, Frodo stood, and beside him was Sam who seemed slightly despondent. Frodo's arm was about Sam's shoulder, listening sympathetically to the stout Hobbit's quiet musings over a Hobbit maiden named Rosie. Glorfindel in a robe of forest green, and Elrohir in a dark blue robe, sat a short distance away on chairs in the center of the room near to Gimli who was slouched against the back of his chair, his expression wavering between boredom and impatience as his thick boots wiggled back and forth where they dangled a fraction above the floor.

The unmarried Elves, Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir, were nervously smoothing their hands down their robes, or glancing toward the lattice over the window where the red glow of the setting sun shone through, the light changing slowly as it crept up the wall, the nearer the sun fell toward the horizon. Elrohir released a low sigh as he glanced down, paused, and quickly flicked a fragment of lint off of the embroidery of his robe. Clearly, though this was not yet their turn to be wed, they were as concerned for the approval of their ladies as Legolas was for Lalaith's, which brought him some small comfort. And his smiled as he briefly touched his hand to the golden sapphire ring he had worn upon his smallest finger since the day they had plighted their troth.

Thranduil, Celeborn, Aragorn, and Haldir, the married men of the group, paced before the door, like a group of troubled sentinels, pausing now and again to cast thoughtful glances toward Legolas, though no words were spoken. The grey and silver robe of the Elven king of Green Wood caught in the still air as he moved, catching in the light of the lamps that hung about the dressing chamber. His hands were clasped behind his back, a circlet of twined silver and gold drawing back his golden hair from his brow. Celeborn was adorned in robes similar in hue to those of Thranduil, though no circlet adorned his brow, and the embroidery and style of his robe was fashioned in the manner of the Galadhrim. Haldir was clad in a robe of darker grey in similar form as his lord Celeborn, while Aragorn wore dark blue robes of Imladris, and on this day, wore no crown upon his head. Legolas drew in yet another deep breath of air, reminded of the days long before the Ring had been found, when Aragorn, like Lalaith, was but a young ward of Elrond, youthful Estel, not yet the heir of the kingship of Men. And Lalaith had been but a young Elven maiden, fair to him above all others. Though Legolas did not know yet that she was a child of Valar, or capable of such fearless deeds as she truly was.

A smile twitched the corners of his lips as he thought of her, readying herself for their ceremony in another chamber elsewhere, his mother and Galadriel aiding her in her preparations. She would be beautiful when they met in the garden he did not doubt, and his throat grew dry to think of it. And of the feast that he hoped would pass swiftly to the marriage ceremony, when the Lady Galadriel and his father would join their hands and bless them. And then their life together would begin.

Ai, Valar, let me please her, his mind pleaded. In-, all things.

Legolas swallowed again, forcing his thoughts back to the present, and his eyes back to his reflection. He reached up, touching his fingers lightly again to the silver circlet upon his brow, adjusting it slightly.

"Augh!" Gimli exclaimed from behind him, shattering the heavy quiet as the Dwarf threw his hands in the air, and rocked forward where he sat, his hands slapping his knees in exasperation.

Thranduil glanced up at the Dwarf's expletive. His countenance bore a look of calm serenity on his face as Legolas met his gaze in the mirror, and the two traded a humored grin, though Thranduil's lower lip trembled slightly. Legolas tightened his jaw at this, swallowing at a fierce lump in his throat. He was his father's only child, and Legolas could only guess at the sundry emotions that were roiling within Thranduil's heart, now.

"That's the seventh time you've done that, Legolas. You look fine!" Gimli wailed as he threw himself back, slouching heavily in the chair, his arms flailing as he continued, "From what I understand, it is customary in Elven weddings for the bridegroom to arrive at the feast before his lady. Lalaith is going to think you've sailed off to Valinor without her!"

Legolas smirked softly. "And the Lady Galadriel is going to note your rumpled robes from all your slouching Gimli," he returned, grinning toward the Dwarf's image in the mirror.

Gimli straightened suddenly at this, his expression struggling to suppress a look of alarmed concern as the others chuckled softly about the room.

"I-, I don't-, think she'll care," he returned defensively, even as he hurriedly smoothed down the front of the dark blue robe that had been woven for him as a present. It had been tailored to his shorter stature, and fitted for his broad, thick shoulders. The Lady Calassë who had taken a great liking to the Dwarf, had, amid the frantic bustle of preparations for so many weddings, made it for him, and had even found time to embroider the hem of the robe with shining threads of mithril in a pattern of uniform angles rathering than twining vines, which appealed to his Dwarven nature. And though Legolas dared not admit it aloud, he suspected Gimli was quite proud of the gift.

"Indeed, Legolas, we should depart, if you are ready," Thranduil offered at last with a low sigh.

Legolas drew in a deep breath at this. A confusing wave of fearful excitement surged in his heart.

"Very well, _Ada_," he agreed, and turned away from the mirror, striding to where his father stood.

Gimli released a loud groan of relief as he hopped up, and the other men tall and short, rose to their feet as well, releasing deep breaths, and exchanging nervous looks as Thranduil clapped a strong hand upon Legolas' shoulder and pushed the door open. The warm red light of the glowing sun rushed in upon a gentle wind scented of sweet flowers as Thranduil drew his son onto the veranda, the others following behind.

Garlands of sweetly scented flowers hung from the silver railing of the portico as Legolas, with his father's hand resting supportively upon his shoulder, strode steadily along toward the Hall of Fire. The garlands had been twined down the banisters, slanting down the stone stair that led to the garden below the steeply roofed Hall of Fire, where the feast would take place. The sky opened above them as the roof of the portico fell behind, and Legolas paused to lift his eyes to the many shaded canvas, warm violet in the east, stretching into striations of gold and crimson into the west where the sun had only just fallen below the distant hills in the west. Eärendil had not yet appeared, but he would, when the afterglow faded, and the flames of sunlight burnt down to softer embers. Legolas smiled softly, and turned his gaze down the broad steps to the glade below him. The feet of Gimli and the Hobbits clattered quietly as they dropped down the wide steps to the green grass of the garden where lamps flickered amongst the trees, and long carven table tables set with plates and goblets, encircled the center of the glade that was quickly filling with Elves, their soft voices humming with anticipation.

Elrond, with Gandalf beside him were visiting quietly with a small group of Elves, but as they noted the approach of Legolas and his companions, they offered brief farewells, and turned away to greet the nearing bridegroom. Behind the Wizard and the Elven Lord, upon the edge of the glade, stood an arching bower of smooth wood carved to imitate the twining of vines, countless new spring flowers of varied shades were ribboned through the weavings of the wood, growing upon their own living vines, the air of the garden heady with their sweet scent.

Legolas' jaw tightened softly as his father's hand dropped away from his shoulder. Thranduil fell back a pace and Legolas drew in a deep breath as he turned his eyes toward Elrond and noted the trembling line of his smile, and of Celeborn's as well. Elrond's eyes shimmered with mist as he drew away from the table and came to greet Legolas, clapping his hands upon the younger Elf's shoulders, before pulling him close in an uncharacteristic embrace that was brief, yet heartfelt.

"She loves you, Prince Legolas," Elrond choked softly as he drew back, his hands firm upon Legolas' shoulders. "With all the strength of her fëa."

"And I love her as well my lord, with all that I am, or ever will be," Legolas returned softly as he dipped his head to the man who was soon to be his father in law. "I swear to you, I will endeavor to bring delight to her for as long as the life of Arda endures. And to whatever unseen blessings await us after the ending of the world."

Elrond smiled kindly. "This I know," he assured Legolas in a tone of warm gratitude. "And I am grateful to you." His countenance, tortured yet hopeful at once, turned now toward Aragorn who shifted where he stood, and sighed quietly.

"I am grateful to you both, my sons," Elrond managed to murmur past a catch in his throat as a broken smile again made its way across his face and he reached out a hand, clapping it upon Aragorn's shoulder as he had upon Legolas'.

A short breath broke out of Aragorn's lungs at this, and he offered a soft, tentative grin.

"The Valar made you for my daughters," Elrond choked softly, speaking to them both, though his eyes focused upon Aragorn. "They are happiest with you as they would be with no others. And because of you, they will live in joy."

Elrond swallowed softly and his hand tightened briefly upon Legolas' shoulder, then fell away as the eyes of the Lord of Imladris lifted to the balustrade that looked over the open glade. Elrond's eyes grew bright as he gazed past Legolas, his countenance suddenly awe struck even as misted tears again touched his eyes. A hush fell over the garden in that moment, silencing the low hum of the gathered guests as all eyes turned toward the crest of the steps that led downward to the garden.

Even before he saw her, Legolas felt the sweet peace of her presence, the dulcet, silent voice of her soul calling to his, and his heart caught upon a beat as he drew in a low breath, savoring the moment of anticipation before he turned at last.


	58. Chapter 56 Part 2

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 56, part 2

August 23, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Recap:

Even before he saw her, Legolas felt the sweet peace of her presence, the dulcet, silent voice of her soul calling to his, and his heart caught upon a beat as he drew in a low breath, savoring the moment of anticipation before he turned at last.

...

part 2

From the first sweet realization that he loved her, Legolas had envisioned this moment, had pictured her beauty in his mind, imagined the surge of emotion that would claim him at the sight of her upon their wedding day. Yet nothing had prepared him for this consuming fire that raced wildly through his body as his eyes came to rest upon his bride where she stood poised upon the crest of the steps, her eyes trained with ardent tenderness upon him. Fierce and scorching her gaze was, yet consummately sweet all at once.

"Ai," he breathed silently as all the world seemed to pause in that moment.

Lalaith stood with her ladies about her, but Legolas saw no others. The white gown that adorned her resplendent young body, seemed to bear a silver glow as if she were formed of starlight itself, descending like a goddess to earth from her place on high as she began to glide down the steps toward the garden. And so she was indeed; a daughter of Elbereth, the Star Kindler, and Manwë, Lord of the Heavens. She was a child of the stars, exalted, divine, and flawlessly glorious.

But she was a woman as well. A woman of warm, supple flesh, and of passionate secrets that played behind her eyes. Her fair cheeks were flushed with color; the rapid beat of her pulse was visible beneath the pale flesh of her throat, and her soft young breasts concealed by the silken swathe of her gown rose and fell with silent fervor as Legolas, feeling his feet responding of their own volition, moved slowly to the base of the steps, and waited for her as she came, her hand in Galadriel's though her eyes never left his own.

Lalaith trembled inwardly as she descended the steps. A warm weakness had seized her limbs the moment her eyes had lain sight upon him, and even now her gaze was ensnared, unable to leave the shining image of Legolas as he moved with captivating grace to the base of the steps, the firm strength of his youthful, muscled body undisguised by the exquisite robes that adorned him. How beautiful he was, she thought to herself, how fiercely, wildly, beautiful as his lips turned up in a timid, endearing smile even as his eyes, deep as the sea, devoured her unashamedly. His lean chest rose and fell all the more deeply the nearer she drew to him, until at last, she forced herself to stop two steps above him, remembering decorum and restrained.

Galadriel, her hand barely felt in Lalaith's trembling grip, squeezed her hand gently, and with a parting smile, let go, and drew back a pace.

"We are well met, valiant lady," Legolas murmured, a small smirk turning up the corners of his lips, his eyes plaintive as he lifted his hand with a short bow.

"Well met indeed my noble lord," she returned, feeling a quiver of a smile moving over her lips as she extended her hand, and slipped her fingers lightly into his proffered grip. Ai, the barest touch of him sent tongues of flame through her body!

Drawing in a deep breath of the cool, sweetly scented wind to bring thought again to her mind, she lighted down the last steps to the cool, dew wet grass, and smiled up into his eyes, bright with the lights of the stars gathered in them. Legolas did not speak, but he did not need to, for his eyes spoke volumes as he turned and with her beside him, started across the grass encircled about by the many tables, toward the Lord of Imladris, who, with misted eyes, came forward to claim the maiden's hands.

"Lalaith," Elrond's voice was soft and broken as he drew near and Legolas, with visible reluctance, surrendered his betrothed to him. Elrond caught her hand in his and held it briefly, cradling it like a cherished jewel, gazing down upon the maiden with tears hovering upon the rims of his eyes until, with a soft cry, Lalaith threw herself against his chest, and he gathered her close as his hand touched softly against the tresses of her hair before he drew back, and smiled down upon her.

"Legolas!" His mother's voice at his arm caused Legolas to turn his head as Aseaiel, her eyes moist with joyful pride, clasped hold of his arm. Swallowing at a sudden hardness in his throat, Legolas reached over and covered her hand where it looped through his own.

"Mother-," he sighed.

"How handsome you are," she observed softly, her eyes flashing teasingly as she glanced toward his betrothed. "And how beautiful your bride is. She glows as brightly as the stars."

"She does," he breathed as he studied his bride who was trading tender words with Elrond. Lalaith lifted a hand with gentle grace, and brushed a tear from the Elven Lord's cheek. The folds of her gown rippled like liquid starlight in the wind that moved softly through the glade, and Legolas smiled.

"She is like a living star, herself," he mused.

Aseaiel smirked at her son's expression. "She is, indeed. As are you, Legolas. How glad we are for you and Lalaith," she murmured, turning her head as Thranduil drew near, gazing upon his wife with youthful adoration. Aseaiel smiled, and left Legolas' side to greet her husband with a gentle smile.

"Indeed," Thranduil added to his wife's words, as he encircled an arm about her shoulders, and squeezed gently.

All about him, the betrothed men of Legolas' escort met their ladies with eager smiles, and furtive whispers, and more than one briefly stolen kiss. And Haldir and Celeborn greeted their wives with eager, youthful smiles. As for Gimli, he blushed like a shy child at Galadriel's cordial greetings, and took her hand to kiss it, bowing low before the lady, until his beard nearly brushed the grass at his feet. Gandalf greeted Lalaith with a merry smile, clasping her hands as his eyes twinkled. The Hobbits too, greeted Lalaith and the other ladies with much happiness, their excitement for the coming feast unconcealed upon their bright faces as Elrond, in a voice that quavered slightly, bid all to take their seats.

The Hobbits' merriment was infectious, and Legolas found himself grinning like a youth as he and Lalaith in a flurry of jollity, were both guided to carven chairs in the center of the head table, and bidden to sit. Galadriel who would speak for Lalaith in place of her mother, sat upon Lalaith's left hand, with Celeborn beside her. And Thranduil found his place upon Legolas' right hand, as Aseaiel seated herself beside her husband. In the midst of the flurry of activity as the guests seated themselves, Legolas contented himself with studying his bride beside him as Galadriel caught her hand and whispered something furtively in her ear like a conspiratorial maiden. Lalaith beamed merrily at her grandmother's secret words, and Legolas drew in a long, slow breath, marveling anew at how he had come to attain her. She was his friend, his trusted comrade, his cherished betrothed. And upon this night, she would become his wife. Their fëar would become one.

His breath caught upon the thought, and his heart raced ahead to the night that lay before them, when-,

Her head turned of a sudden, her eyes lifted and met his gaze, shining as if she somehow sensed his thoughts. And Legolas met her gaze with tender boldness, even as desire stirred hotly within him. He could think of no words to say, and so he simply smiled, and reached for her hand.

Lalaith could barely contain the wild pounding of her heart as Legolas studied her unashamedly, his gaze consuming her own as his lean warm fingers slid over her hand where it rested upon the tabletop. She turned her hand, letting his fingers weave through her own with eager familiarity and she could not but feel the stirring heat of anticipation as they shared this brief, intimate touch, surrounded by talk, and laughter. She wondered if he had noted the rising color in her cheeks, and hoped that he had. Allowed this one brief moment alone with him in the midst of their kin, she once again let her eyes wander over his strong, firm body; his smooth, fluid movements as he leaned slightly nearer her, the sturdy strength of his arms and chest beneath the shimmering folds of his cream white robe.

A quick smile touched the corner of his mouth as he noted her bold appraisal, and sensing he had guessed her thoughts, Lalaith ducked her head, feeling even more color darkening her face before she lifted her gaze once more to Legolas' face, rewarded with a timid smirk and warm, dark eyes.

"I have thought of nothing but you, all day," Legolas breathed as he brought her hand near his face and brushed his lips against her knuckles in a way that stirred her blood with sweet hope.

"Neither could I stop thinking of you-," Lalaith murmured gently, as she caressed his knuckles softly with her thumb. "I have wanted for nothing but this day to pass-,"

Her voice grew silent as Elrond's voice, firm and clear, though laced also with emotion, began to carry out over the clearing. And though they spoke no more, Legolas offered her a timid smile as hand in hand, the betrothed pair turned their eyes toward the Lord of Imladris.

"My friends, kinsfolk," Elrond called out warmly to the gathering where he stood at his place beside Celeborn's left hand, "Tonight we are merry, celebrating the first marriage in Imladris since the fall of the Dark Lord: The bonding of Lalaith, my child, my daughter-," he choked softly upon the word, "to the choice of her heart, Legolas Prince of Eryn Lasgalen."

Smiles were cast her way, and soft murmurs of approval whispered over the gathering before Elrond continued.

"Many of us here will one day sail into the West. Some few of us-," he cast a brief, plaintive glance toward Arwen and Aragorn further down the table, "will remain. Yet, my kinsfolk, my friends, I pray that the Valar will bless the paths that each of us will take, that we might have joy. And may we not forget hope also, and the mercy of the Valar, that those we love, will be returned again to us, on some distant day."

About the gathering, here and there, women who sat alone, without men beside them, swallowed softly, trading quiet glances before turning their eyes downward.

Legolas' hand tightened upon hers, and she shuddered softly, humbled at the warm blessing that was his very nearness. She turned and cast a brief glance at him, adoring his tender, timid grin that she so loved. After all the dangers they had passed through, after all the pain, the uncertainty, the danger, and the ache of waiting, she was here beside Legolas at last, upon their wedding day.

"There are many more words I might say," the Lord of Imladris continued quietly, and Lalaith turned again to gaze up at Elrond. She could see in his eyes, that his own thoughts were carried away upon some other distant vein.

"But-," Elrond drew in a sigh, rising from his somber mood and smiled down upon the betrothed pair. "I was once young and eager as these two are now. And-, I understand why they would wish my words to remain short."

Lalaith and Legolas said nothing to this, though they traded yet another glance, their faces flushing darkly as soft laughter rippled over the gathering. Elrond smiled at this, and looked away toward the shadows. At a brief movement of his hand, servants suddenly materialized from the cool shadows of the trees, coming along a number of paths down from the kitchens, with trays of steaming food held aloft. Several loud exclamations from the direction of the Hobbits, revealed Pippin's delight as well as Gimli's at the sight of the marvelous feast appearing from the out of the trees.

And even Lalaith's attention, for the moment, turned upon the platters of steaming venison, that servants carried forth, and placed on the tables before them, along with pitchers of sweet wine, trays of steamed vegetables and fresh fruits; breads of all varieties, freshly baked, with steam still wafting off the crisp brown crusts.

She helped herself to the platter of venison before her, spearing a generous slice to her plate, along with a fat bunch of juicy red grapes and thanked the servant who filled her wine goblet before she began to eat.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she noted Legolas' humored expression as he watched her in between his own bites of the venison and steamed vegetables he had gathered onto his plate. She swallowed a bite of savory meat, and allowed herself a small chuckle as she glanced at him.

"What is it, Legolas?" she queried. She turned to Galadriel to see if she had been humored by some joke that Lalaith had missed, but the Lady of the Golden Wood had turned intently away from the pair, caught up in lively conversation with her husband and son in law. Upon Legolas' other hand, Thranduil and Aseaiel focused their attentions upon each other, their foreheads nearly touching as they murmured softly over some conspiratorial secret.

"Nothing," Legolas chuckled merrily as she turned back to him, perplexed. "I merely-, I enjoy watching you." He surveyed her for a moment, a playful gleam in his eyes before he reached out, plucked a grape from off her plate, and offered it to her.

"Ai, Lalaith nin-," he breathed reverently as her lips parted and she accepted the fruit, chewing it as Legolas' fingers remained upon her lips, trailing lightly over her cheek, their eyes trading quiet secrets. "Never shall I tire of looking upon your beauty," he murmured as she turned, and plucked another grape, offering it to him with a pert smile.

She pressed the small fruit past his lips, quietly savoring the feel of his parting mouth, the warm moisture within, the feel of his tongue against her fingertip-,

She drew her finger back slowly, and drew in a deep breath as she ran her thumb over the finger Legolas had moistened. His eyes were deep and passionately intense. Yet they were gentle as well, as they had ever been, and he smiled as she sighed softly. Leaning conspiratorially toward her betrothed, her heart throbbing in her breast, she whispered, "I am glad of that, for neither shall I tire of gazing upon you, Legolas. Though all the ages pass."

To this, he grinned warmly, and brushed his thumb with sweet affection against her chin.

...

The feast was slowly wending to its close, the Hobbits, even, to Lalaith's surprise, were quite satisfied. Even Sam, with a sigh, leaned back away from his half eaten fruit tart, and sighed long, rubbing the round of his fully belly as he and the other three Hobbits down the table from her, traded light, joking words.

Gimli, leaning back in his chair in much the same attitude as the stout Hobbit, valiantly squelched behind his hand, what would otherwise have been a raucous belch, and it came out in a rather garbled burble. Lalaith smiled and glanced away as the Dwarf flushed behind his beard, and glanced about, hoping none had noticed.

She was feeling quite full herself, though not entirely finished with the berry pastry that lay upon a small platter between her and betrothed. She and Legolas had been playfully feeding fragments of the sweet confection to each other, hardly noticing as the flames of evening faded, and the evening sky slowly darkened above them.

"Here, here my love," Legolas offered laughing, and her attention turned back again to him as he gathered up the cloth from beside his plate, and dabbed at a spot of berry sauce upon the corner of her mouth. "It is a wonder we have not spilled all over our finery."

Lalaith obligingly held still for him, though she spoke as he wiped away the spot. "Yes, I fear you are right. And we cannot easily blame the pastry these last few minutes, as the feast has drawn to its close. But rather, our own childishness."

Legolas sighed softly at this as he finished his task and set the cloth aside. His gaze lifted and his countenance grew somber as he glanced about them, taking up her hand in his where it rested upon the tabletop.

"It is drawing to an end," he breathed as if struck with a thought new and wonderful to him. Glancing at their joined hands, he turned his eyes again to hers, his gaze warm and deep.

Lalaith's lips parted in a silent question as she turned and glanced about them. Lalaith blinked and drew in a quick sigh, for she had hardly paid heed to the passage of time. But the sun was gone, and twilight indeed, was almost upon them. The sweetly scented trees upon the edge of the glade were bathed now in shadow. Their branches wafted lazily in the lowering twilight above the flowering vines twined through the woven bower that was set half in shadow upon the edge of the light cast by glowing silver lamps swaying from wrought posts about the glade. Lalaith noticed them only now, doubtless brought in by servants as the sun faded beyond the horizon. And the western sky, once ablaze with red and yellow streaks of fire, was slowly fading. Eärendil would appear soon, as the flames of the sunset faded and cooled.

She glanced toward her betrothed, and saw quiet wonder upon his face, and warm adoration. His thoughts were as her own, and her flesh trembled warmly, answered by a reassuring squeeze of Legolas' hand.

"Legolas, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen."

Elrond's voice, strong and deep and even, echoed over the assemblage, and the quiet hum of talk about the tables ceased as the Lord of Imladris rose away from the table, and nodded with a somber gaze toward the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen.

Lalaith's heart gave a great thud in her chest, for these words marked the beginning of their wedding ceremony. Legolas too, felt the import of Elrond's words, and with a quickly drawn breath and a swift lift of his chin, gave her hand a final squeeze as he rose from the table and stood forth to face Elrond.

"My Lord, Elrond," he murmured softly, his head bowing toward the father of his bride. His face was somber, though his eyes danced with light.

"Why have you come here this day?" Elrond queried. His voice was gentle, low and measured now, in the customary somber tone of the ceremony.

Legolas drew in a long breath as he cast a fleeting, tender glance toward Lalaith who was yet seated.

"To bind myself to this lady, whom I have chosen," he returned with a soft smile toward his betrothed, and Elrond smiled as well, glancing toward Lalaith as he blinked back misted tears, gesturing to the vaulted bower, twined through with flowering vines.

"Then, if it is the will of your heart, take your place, and await the coming of your bride."

With a swift breath rising in his chest, Legolas did as he was bidden, striding with purposeful steps from the table toward the arch of the bower where the green vines and young flowers adorning the archway flickered upon the edge of the lamplight. With a steady stride he moved beneath it, turning once again to face Lalaith, his smile warming her heart as his eyes spoke sweet secrets to her across the space between them.

"Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen," Elrond called again, and now Thranduil rose from his place beside his son's empty seat.

"My Lord, Elrond," he called out as he bowed his head toward the Lord of Imladris.

"Why have you come here, this day?" Elrond asked for the second time.

"To bless the union of my son and this lady, whom he has chosen," Thranduil returned with a grin and a wink of assurance toward Lalaith.

"Then, if it is your will, take your place, and await the coming of his bride."

In silence, Thranduil nodded, and strode with strong grace as his son had, toward the bower where his son waited, and took his place to the side of the flowering entrance.

"Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien," Elrond's words were softened somewhat, and a boyish smile teased at the corners of his lips as his mother in law rose with flowing grace, and bowed toward him.

"My Lord, Elrond," she murmured softly, a grin of her own drawing up her mouth.

"Why have you come here, this day?" he asked her.

"To bless the union of my granddaughter and this lord, whom she has chosen," Galadriel returned glancing with tenderness first toward Lalaith, and then toward the bower where Legolas waited.

Elrond's lips trembled slightly before he composed himself again, and murmured softly, "Then, if it is your will, take your place, and await her coming."

Galadriel nodded to this, and glided away. Lalaith drew in a deep breath, and watched her go, her gown flowing softly like a silver river in the soft wind as she took her place outside the dome of the bower, opposite Thranduil.

Lalaith closed her eyes softly, drawing in a deep breath as she struggled to still the pounding of her heart.

"Lalaith-," Elrond called out, emotion catching within his voice, "Lady of-," he drew in a shuddering breath, "Valinor-, and of Imladris."

With these words, Lalaith drew open her eyes, and rose with a throbbing heart, from the table, and stepped away, bowing toward the dark haired Elf who struggled to rein his emotions as their eyes met.

"My Lord, Elrond," she offered softly.

Elrond was to ask now, the bride's purpose in coming, but he paused briefly, his eyes closed, his head bowed as he struggled to speak.

"Why have you come here this day?" he managed in a fierce, broken whisper.

"To bind myself to this lord, whom I have chosen," she returned in a soft whisper.

"Then," he choked softly, and lifted his head to gaze upon her, his eyes filled with warmth and pride, and such tenderness, that Lalaith's heart swelled within her as he whispered, "if it is the will of your heart-, go to him."

Lalaith's heart took flight at these words, and she turned her eyes from Elrond toward the archway of the bower, meeting Legolas' tenderly furtive gaze.

A warm smile turned up the edges of his mouth, and a breath swelled deep within his chest as her feet trod softly across the grass toward him, her heart alight with wordless song. The grass was cool against her feet, the scent of the flowering vines sweet in her nostrils. Galadriel's eyes, and Thranduil's as well, greeted her with joy as she drew passed them, and moved at last, beneath the twining arch into the soft scented shadow beneath the bower. She turned to face Legolas, her flesh aching at the warmth of his closeness, though she could not touch him now, not yet. Not yet.

He spoke not at all, but his chest rose and fell with deepened emotion as their gazes embraced across the space between them. His pulse beat steadily and swiftly beneath the warm flesh of his throat as their eyes strove together.

"Lord," Galadriel's gentle voice called to them from her place beside Lalaith. "You have come here this day, to bind yourself to my granddaughter."

"I have, lady," Legolas returned, though his eyes did not move from Lalaith's.

"Have you your gift for her?" she murmured gently, to which Legolas nodded, placing a hand upon the necklace where it rested upon his chest.

"I do." With quiet reverence, Legolas reached behind his neck, and undid the clasp that had bound the necklace there since Galadriel had given them the jeweled necklaces in the Golden Wood.

"Lady," Thranduil's gentle, fatherly voice spoke now, choking softly upon his own emotion. "You have come here this day, to bind yourself to my son."

"I have, lord," Lalaith murmured, her voice soft as she spoke past the emotion that trembled in her throat.

"Have you your gift for him?" he continued gently.

"I do." Lalaith answered, and did as Legolas had. She unbound the clasp of the medallion behind her hair, and drew it forward about her neck until its weight rested within her cupped palm, as the necklace Legolas held, lay sheltered in his own hand.

"Lord," Galadriel spoke again, her eyes fixed tenderly upon Legolas, "will you vow to love my granddaughter, to honor her, and protect her, to comfort her, and cleave to her and no other, as Varda's lord cleaves to her?"

"I will, lady. I swear it." Legolas answered. His eyes ever fixed with plaintive longing upon Lalaith danced with light as he spoke.

"Lady," Thranduil's warm, fatherly voice addressed Lalaith, and his eyes smiled gently upon her, "will you vow to love my son, to honor him, and protect him, to comfort him, and cleave to him and no other, as Manwë's lady cleaves to him?"

"I will, lord," Lalaith sighed, and a wave of tender longing washed over Legolas' countenance as she spoke. "I swear it."

Legolas gulped softly at these words as his hands lifted. The weight of the small twined jewels twisted upon the end of the chain as he leaned forward, and with a low sigh, reached about her slender neck. His fingers brushed meaningfully against the flesh of her throat, to which Lalaith shuddered deliciously. Legolas smiled at this as he clasped the chain beneath her hair, and then withdrew his hands as he stood back again.

"This gift I give to you, lady as a token that I bind myself to you as your husband, and that the vows I make this day, I will keep."

Legolas said these words in the measured tone as was the custom of the ceremony, yet as he spoke, his eyes delved deep into her own. His gentle gaze fairly pulsed with promise, giving silent meaning to the somber words.

"Do you accept my pledge, lady?" he queried, and his voice was a warm caress.

"I accept it, lord, with joy." Her words were a soft sigh upon her lips. She smiled slightly, and Legolas' eyes sparked with eager fire.

A soft wind washed over the silent glade, over the still faces that looked on, bright with joy as Lalaith, her eyes striving fervently with Legolas' leaned slowly forward, and lifting the chain of the medallion, slipped it over his firm shoulders, and around his neck, purposely brushing her fingers against the warm flesh of his throat as he had done with her. She felt his pulse quicken at her touch. Legolas smirked fleetingly, and Lalaith did as well, biting her lip as she joined the clasps together, the cool weight of his hair brushing over her fingers. Slowly with a soft sigh, she began to withdraw her hands, though she could not help but let her fingers slide for a fractioned moment over the smooth cloth of his robe. Legolas drew in a swift breath at this. She could feel his flesh quiver at her touch as she drew her hands again to herself, fixing her eyes upon the jeweled medallion that rested upon the cream white cloth that concealed his firm chest.

"This gift I give to you, lord," she breathed in a soft voice, steady in spite of the wild pounding of her heart, "as a token that I bind myself to you as your wife, and that the vows I make this day, I will keep."

Sweet and heady emotions roiled within her now as her eyes lifted and met his own. Her heart nearly stopped at the love and the achingly tender longing she could see in his eyes.

"Do you accept my pledge, lord?" she whispered.

"I accept it, lady," Legolas breathed, his voice washing in tender waves through her soul as he finished warmly, "with joy."

Lalaith sighed raggedly at these words, the tender weight of his softly spoken words quavering through her heart like the gentle strains of a hymn. Her lips parted softly as she studied the way Legolas drew in a low breath, his eyes caressing her tenderly, though he could not yet touch her. A soft movement came to their ears, but they did not glance away one from each other as Galadriel moved forward and caught Lalaith's hand in her own, and Thranduil drew forth as well to take up his son's hand. Together, they lifted the hands of the pair, until they were level to each other, no more than a breath of air between their trembling fingers.

"As Varda is your witness," Galadriel breathed reverently.

"And as Manwë is your witness," Thranduil solemnly added.

"And as Eru, the Father of us all stands in witness," they both spoke in soft unison, "we join your hands, for you are now one."

A soft gasp caught in Lalaith's throat at the warm touch of Legolas' fingers as Galadriel placed her hand within the trembling gasp of her beloved. A rush of emotion swelled in her heart, a sense of sweet completeness as she gazed up into his suddenly tearful eyes, their fingers weaving eagerly, tightly together.

Beyond the bower beneath which they stood, the glade erupted in joyous cheers, the somber air of the ceremony now completed. But the wedded pair stood hand in hand, motionless but for the quiet trembling of their bodies as they gazed upon one another, overcome.

"Come on, lad!" Gimli shouted jovially from somewhere amidst the laughter and applause of the Hobbits. "Kiss `er!"

Lalaith felt herself flushing at this, and laughed softly, as did Legolas, his eyes glowing all the more ardently upon her.

Solemn excitement trembled along her limbs as Legolas softly smiled then, questioning her with boyish pleading in his eyes, and with endearing timidity, slowly bent his head toward her own. Lalaith sighed, and tilted her face upward. For the briefest moment, Legolas paused, hovering a fraction above her, their breath mingling before slowly, slowly, he closed the space between them, and brushed his mouth tenderly across her parted lips. A kiss so soft and innocent it was, that it caught her breath away from her, and she trembled as his fingers tightened all the more about her own, and pulled her subtly nearer as his free hand lifted and brushed softly against her throat. His fingertips, soft like the wing of a bird, slid over her jaw until his palm cupped her cheek as his lips continued tasting her with tentative hunger, his body trembling against her own.

Lalaith shivered in pleasure as well as she reached timidly forward with her own free hand, and slid it slowly beneath the soft weight of Legolas' robe, her fingers resting now upon the fabric of his tunic, against the firm warmth of his lean torso. To this, Legolas moaned softly against her mouth and shuddering, drew back. His eyes found hers, his gaze warm and dark, and he smiled softly.

"Lalaith nin," he breathed, his brow coming to rest against her own as his thumb brushed tenderly over her cheekbone. "I-," he swallowed. "I love you, my-, wife-,"

The simple word, softly spoken in a voice of breathless wonder, caused a song of joy to trill through her heart, already bursting with gladness.

"And I love you, Legolas. My husband," she sighed, thrilling at the light that washed over his countenance as she spoke the word.

"Lalaith," a woman's voice from beside them caused her to start a little, having forgotten all else about them, and she and Legolas both turned toward Galadriel and Thranduil who, with beaming countenances and soft laughter, moved forward to embraced their children.

Lalaith smiled tearfully into Galadriel's eyes as her grandmother caught her against herself, and kissed her cheek amidst tears.

"How happy I am, for you," Galadriel whispered against her hair. "May the blessings of the Valar rest upon you, always."

Galadriel drew back smiling to turn and greet the bridegroom, and Thranduil, having embraced his son, turned to Lalaith as well, his strong arms catching her close. "I am proud to have you now as my daughter," he murmured, his voice choked. "Legolas has chosen well. May the grace of the Valar be with you both."

Lalaith murmured her soft thanks, choked by emotion as the others of her kin now came forward to offer their blessings. And taking this as the signal to begin, music, sprightly and merry, sprang up from a band of musicians hidden in a corner of the glade shaded now in the cool shadows of night, and all around the glade, couples were joining hand in hand, and mingling upon the grass in the center.

Legolas tightened his hand upon Lalaith's and glanced down at her with a meaningful smile as with his hand in her own, he drew her at last out of the bower, into the cool of the night air, scented now, with the sweet tang of coming rain. The sky though, was clear and bright but for a roll of dark clouds to the north, the sunset long faded to a faint blue ember where Eärendil hung aloft, a shining spark of silver within the fading western sky above the bower where they had been wed. Legolas' hands tightened gently as they clasped her own. Lalaith smiled at the tender, playful light shining in the eyes of her beloved, and her blood stirred hotly within her.

"Welcome, kinsman!" Elrohir's merry voice, broke through the stillness between them, as Elrond's second born strode forward, Calassë beaming and content, upon his arm. Lalaith smiled upon their dear countenances, which shone with bright gladness, Elrohir's eyes bright with more than a little wetness.

The next few moments were a joyful blur to Lalaith as Calassë and Elrohir embraced the wedded pair, each offering their blessings, and Elladan with Miriel beside him, and Arwen with Aragorn as well as Glorfindel and Ithilwen, and Haldir with Lothirien upon his arm, much laughter and happy tears as well, mingled with each of their greetings, and their blessings. And Gandalf came as well behind Gimli and the Hobbits, holding back patiently, a gleam in his eyes as Lalaith stooped down to embrace Pippin and Merry together, then Frodo, and last of all, Sam, his little honest face already damp with tears.

"Here now," she offered softly, brushing a hand against his round cheeks, and guessing at the reason for his tears. "You'll see Rosie soon enough. She'll be waiting."

"Will she?" Sam asked with a suddenly hopeful look, to which Lalaith leaned forward, and kissed his small tawny head, drinking in the warm, earthy Hobbit scent of him.

"I do not doubt it," she whispered softly, and drew back, to see his brave grin and his eyes, hopeful now, as he gulped back tears and stepped away, joining the other Hobbits as Lalaith rose.

Gimli stepped forward then, coming to a solid halt between the bride and groom, dabbing a finger in the corner of his eyes, and clearing his throat gruffly.

Legolas warmly began, "Gimli-,"

"A bit of dust," he grumbled softly. "A bit of dust. That's all."

Lalaith glanced toward Legolas, and traded a warm grin with her new husband over the Dwarf's head before with a great harrumph, Gimli hugged Lalaith of a sudden, tightly about her middle.

"Bless you, lassie," Gimli grumbled before releasing her, and lurching toward Legolas, giving him a similar embrace as he thumped the Elf enthusiastically upon the back. "Bless you, lad," he added before stumbling back, still dabbing at his eyes, and clearing his throat vehemently. "It's good to see you both-," he choked roughly, "so happy as this."

"Thank you, Gimli," Lalaith offered softly, trading a softened look of tender understanding with Legolas.

"Augh," he offered, waving his hand dismissively, and sniffing fiercely, eyeing the two of them through eyes that were decidedly wet before he grumbled and stumped off, after the Hobbits. Gandalf at last came forward now, reaching for her hands, and catching them in his warm, gnarled grip.

"Mir o Imladris," he greeted her gently, as he pulled her close in a warm embrace before drawing back, and addressing both her and Legolas, a gentle smile upon his wizened face. "After all that we have passed through together, now a season of joy has come for you, together. Use well the days. And may the Valar bless you, always."

"Thank you," they both murmured in soft unison as the wizard clasped both their hands and offered a soft squeeze before retreating after the Hobbits.

Aseaiel came forward now, catching Lalaith to her first, and weeping merry tears upon the shoulder of her son's new bride.

"You complete our son," Aseaiel whispered in her ear before they parted. "As he completes you. May the Grace of the Valar rest upon your union, forever."

Drawing back, Aseaiel pressed a gentle kiss to Lalaith's cheek, then turned to her son, repeating her blessing to him as well. And as she stepped away to Thranduil's side who had come forward to meet his wife and guide her to the dancing, Lalaith turned away to see Celeborn drawing near. His face was as fraught with emotion as Elrond's was, where the Lord of Imladris stood back with misted eyes, waiting until the end.

"Lalaith," Celeborn offered quietly, gathering her close to him, and pressing a kiss gently to her hair. He was shaking softly with repressed tears as he softly breathed, "I am happy for your joy. May the Valar bless you, always."

He drew back then, and with his arm yet about Lalaith's shoulders, clapped his free hand upon Legolas' shoulder, and gazed upon the Elven Prince with a gentle, admonishing eye. "I feel naught but joy, to call you kinsman now. Lalaith has chosen well."

Legolas grinned warmly to this, and Celeborn managed a small smile also, though his eyes remained somber, and his hand did not yet leave Legolas' arm. "May your doom be other than mine," he continued in a low voice, a hint of somber sadness beneath it, "and your treasure remain with you to the end."

With that, he managed a brief grin, and turned away, his gaze seeking out Galadriel who stood near with her hands clasped before her as a maiden awaiting her lover, with a small, girlish smile upon her lips. To this, Celeborn sighed, and visibly cheered as he joined his wife, and hand in hand, went to join in the dancing.

"What did he mean-," Legolas queried, his hand slipping across Lalaith's back as the Lord of the Galadhrim moved away toward his lady.

"I-," Lalaith returned, her voice fading with a shake of her head, for his words had perplexed her as well. But she did not dwell long on them, for now, Elrond, the last of all, came forward, his eyes wet, though a smile was upon his face.

"May I have the honor of this first dance, my daughter?" Elrond asked, offering her a slight bow, and his hand.

"Of course, Ada," Lalaith returned warmly, and Elrond smiled. She slipped her hand into his and offered a quick glance to Legolas who grinned and stepped slightly back, giving his new father in law leave to escort his bride toward the center of the glade where they joined in the dancing among the bright colors and merry laughter of the others, where even the Hobbits had been taken into the dancing, having formed a merry ring with a group of Elflings on the far side of the glade.

"Lalaith," Elrond whispered, amidst the merry lilting tune. "Would that your mother Celebrian could see your wedding-," he choked softly. "Though-," he paused, the brief pause weighted with meaning before he spoke again, "she will see you, again." At this, he glanced toward Legolas who stood on the edge of the light, watching them with a slim smile upon his face. "And she will be pleased with your choice, as I am. And as are your exalted mother and father who brought your forth, and gifted you to us."

Lalaith turned as she danced in Elrond's arms and glanced toward her new husband, seeing the light in Legolas' gaze as their eyes fleetingly met. "It was their will that Legolas and I find each other."

"It was," Elrond returned, his voice weighted with warmth as the merry lilting notes of the song trilled to an end, and the couples about them parted with bright laughter, and much applause.

Elrond and Lalaith parted as well, her hand still resting within her father's as he gazed down upon her, wetness in his eyes. With a sigh, he bent toward her, and pressed a tender kiss to her brow as he drew back, releasing her hand.

"Go," he murmured, "and be happy."

Beyond the lights of the flickering lamps, a song plaintive and slow, a single flute and a harp blending with tender emotion, flowed across the glade like a gentle breeze. And in that moment, a warmth behind her, a heated stirring of her blood, whispered of his presence, and a soft breath caught in her lungs just as a gentle voice spoke from behind.

"May I have the honor of this dance, my lady wife?"

Lalaith drew in a shuddering breath and turned to face Legolas who stood before her, smiling upon her with tender reverence, his hand outstretched, his eyes quietly pleading.

How beautiful he was, she realized with renewed wonder. His face, both youthful and wise, smiled softly upon her. And his hair, long and golden, fell over his strong shoulders, resting upon his firm chest as it rose and fell slowly.

"The honor would be mine, my lord husband," she breathed in the sudden quiet, hardly noticing as Elrond moved away toward the edge of the glade, looking on with mist in his eyes.

She slipped her hand into Legolas' warm grip, feeling the familiar shuddering warmth that raced through her body as their flesh again made contact.

Legolas smiled tenderly at this, and with gentle grace, drew her to him, one arm circling her waist and drawing her closer as her own arm rested upon his firm shoulder.

Many were the gentle smiles cast their way from amongst the other dancers as the wedded pair swayed slowly together upon the edge of the lamplight, lost in the sweetness of the music, and in each other.

Lalaith, absorbed in Legolas' gaze, was vaguely aware as the gentle, plaintive notes quavered on, that her husband was slowly leading her away beyond the edge of the lamplight toward one of the shadowed paths that twined up away through the trees. His hand about her waist trembled a little as he clutched her more closely against himself, and Lalaith's heart began to throb within her as the shadows of the night closed about them and the strains of the music ended in the sighing whisper of a flute.

"Lalaith," Legolas breathed in the reverent silence that followed, drawing his hand from about her waist at last, though their woven fingers did not part. "Will you-, come with me?"

A distant rumble of thunder echoed across the valley from the north, the slow rumble of rain clouds closing over the valley in a rush of sweetly scented wind.

"I will," she hissed, a swell of trust, mingled with tender desire rising in her heart. And to this, Legolas smiled, and led her swiftly into the shadows of the twining trail, away from the lights and the music, and the gentle, understanding eyes that glanced away as the wedded pair disappeared, pretending not to have seen their hurried departure.

Elrond sighed softly, his eyes following the flight of his youngest daughter and her new husband as they disappeared into the darkness, though he glanced to his side as Gimli came trundling near, still dabbling at the corner of his eye.

"Hullo, m'lord," the Dwarf grumbled softly.

"Are you well, Gimli, son of Gloin?" he queried gently as the Dwarf thumped to a halt beside him.

"Aye, I am," Gimli muttered softly. "Cursed dust." And Elrond offered a grin, clapping the Dwarf gently upon the shoulder.

Up the wending trail through the starlight, the newly wedded pair hurried along, Lalaith clutching trustingly to Legolas' hand as she wondered silently where he was taking her. The lights of the Last Homely House were falling behind and below her. She knew, vaguely, where she was, and wondered at it. For there was nothing up here, but-,

"Legolas!" she gasped of a sudden, realizing at last, their destination as the trail turned sharply against the cliffside, and a high set of steps, carved into the mountain's face rose before them. She lifted her eyes, noting at last, a faint glow from a window high upon the ledge of the cliff.

Legolas turned to her, smiling gently. "Come," he offered softly, and with his hand in hers, began up the steps, the lights of Imladris falling beneath them as they climbed.

"The cottage!" she drew in a shuddering breath as tears touched her eyes. "The rooms that Elrond and Celebrian shared before she sailed for Valinor!"

"Are you surprised?" he queried, smiling over his shoulder as the fluted pillars of marched past them.

"I am," she confessed with a soft laugh. "Most pleasantly so."

"I spoke to Elrond of this cottage, the day we returned," he admitted, a grin in his voice. "He was very pleased to aide me in my plan, and all who could be spared, have been glad to help in making it comfortable for us."

"And you helped as well," she surmised.

Legolas glanced back at her, and smiled before sighing and ducking his head. He smirked shyly. "When I knew you would not suspect. The ladies teased me, but in truth, I did not mind-,"

Lalaith swallowed at a gentle lump forming in her throat as she thought of the gossamer veil Galadriel, Lothirien and Aseaiel had been hurrying to finish but a few hours earlier.

"It has sat largely abandoned, for so many centuries," she whispered softly. "Though on occasion, it has been my sanctuary."

"I remember," he returned softly. "You brought me here once, long ago, and read to me as I lay with my head in your lap. Do you remember?"

Lalaith smiled in the darkness. "How could it forget? It was the day you found me racing through Imladris in my night dress after the twins, when Elrohir put frogs in my bed. I remember I was so mortified that you saw me in such a state-,"

"You needn't have been," Legolas returned gently. "For you were beautiful, Lalaith."

Lalaith blushed and ducked her head as Legolas' hand tightened about hers.

"That night was the Mid-Spring festival," she reminisced, "where we danced until the latest hours."

She sighed, and he turned to her as the steps ended now, before the arching doorway, the soft, rain scented wind washing about them as they paused beneath the flickering light that filtered out upon them.

"It was that night when you fell asleep beside me, that I realized I loved you. That my heart was yours, and in truth, had been so, for centuries."

"Ai, Legolas," Lalaith murmured softly. "If only I had not-,"

"Shh, Lalaith," he breathed tenderly, brushing a warm, soft finger tenderly across her lips. "We are wed now, and all is well."

She smiled into his gentle, adoring eyes. Ai, how she loved him!

"Come," he breathed softly. "I wish for you to see this."

Slowly, with a solemn, though joyful air, Legolas pushed the door open, and with a tender, hopeful look, tightened his hold upon Lalaith's hand, and guided her across the threshold into the warmth of a chamber bathed in soft silver shadows.

The walls, once coated in years of dust, had been scrubbed clean. The stone floor had been swept free of the scattered and dead leaves that had once littered it, and scrubbed until it shone. Even the arching joists of the ceiling had been polished, and glimmered like new. It was as it had been when she was a child, when Celebrian dwelt here, and shared these chambers with her doting lord, Elrond.

In the small sitting room where Lalaith found herself, a small table had been placed upon a woven rug, and set with two chairs. A wooden bowl of fresh fruit; apples, pears and fat red grapes, sat in the center of the table. And all about the chamber, the soft glow of candles set in polished sconces lit everything in soft, silver shadows.

With shining eyes, Legolas guided her forward then paused briefly, dropping his hand from hers, watching her as she stepped further into the room. Lalaith's eyes were large as she gazed about, her soft breath arrested in her throat. The small sitting room, as she remembered, rose up a set of steps to her left through a wide archway and into the spacious bedchamber where near to her beside the wall, sat two trunks, filled, she guessed, with clothing and other necessities they might require over the several days they were to spend here. Newly woven curtains of thick, dark blue linen hung before smaller arching doorways that led to other chambers of the small dwelling. And further away, across the shining polished stone of the floor, the balcony, once framed by tattered and ragged curtains, was veiled by soft swathes of shimmering gossamer that flickered lightly in the night wind stirring beyond the arching pillars.

Her eyes, trailing over the candlelit room, came at last to rest upon the bed, set upon its dais in the center of the room. The carven wood of the frame, once dull and neglected, had been polished to a warm, gleaming brown, and newly woven veils hung shimmering like swathes of cloud, from the high banisters.

Her heart leapt a little as behind her, the door fell shut with a soft click of the latch. She felt Legolas' warm, adoring eyes upon her, though she did not yet turn to him.

Treading slowly, she stepped up the low stair from the sitting room through the wide archway, and made her way across the candlelit stillness toward the dais where the bed sat, mounting the steps until she stood before the bed, her wedding bed, enshrouded in soft veils of gossamer. Reaching out a hand, she caught the edge of one of the veils and reverently drew it aside, her eyes traveling along the length of the bed. The wide mattress appeared delightfully soft, covered over by clean white linens while plump, feather stuffed pillows adorned the headboard, carven to imitate woven vines. The silken coverlet drawn smoothly over all, was soft as she brushed her fingers lightly against it. Newly woven she surmised, for this very night-,

She felt him coming behind her before she heard his soft tread, and she sighed softly at the caress of his warm hands as they came to rest upon her shoulders. Legolas' fingers smoothed the hair away from her neck, lightly trailing over her throat and cheeks, and she felt herself growing warm and weak as she closed her eyes and turned into his caress, nuzzling her lips tenderly against his fingertips.

"Is all arranged to your liking, my beloved?" Legolas whispered softly, the plaintive warmth of his voice brushing across the flesh of her neck as he bent to kiss her throat. His lips were soft, his breath warm, and her very flesh trembled as his mouth trailed softly down to her shoulder.

"Mmm," she murmuredin answer, and he sighed in contentment as he drew back, laying a soft, delicate kiss against the peaked tip of her ear.

"I am glad of that," he murmured. "For I wish to delight you."

Through the soft, candlelit darkness, Lalaith turned slowly to him and lifted her gaze to his. Silently, she studied the warm depths in his eyes, a timid smile tugging at the edges of his lips. How fiercely beautiful he was, she marveled again to herself as trails of sunlight shivered along her flesh.

Slowly, with an endearing meekness in his gaze that stirred her blood, Legolas lifted a hand and reached out, touching his fingertips against her cheek.

"I love you-," he breathed, his voice quavering with warmth. "My laughter-, my reason for joy-,"

"And I love you," she whispered into the warm space between them as she lifted her hands, and trailed her fingertips lightly over the firm sinews of his neck where she could feel the wild throbbing of his pulse as his taut, muscled chest rose and fell with swift emotion. "My fair green leaf of Eryn Lasgalen-,"

Her words fell into silence as her hands slipped down his chest, over the soft cloth of his tunic, and slid beneath the soft weight of the robe that hung about his shoulders. His eyes grew dark, his smile quavered, and a quick breath swelled in his chest as Lalaith slowly pushed the cloak over his shoulders, revealing the cream white tunic beneath, thinly disguising the taut muscles of his chest and his shoulders, until, with a soft rustle of cloth, the cloak fell away, tumbling to the floor about his boots.

Legolas sighed aloud at this, and a warm weakness encompassed her as he stepped nearer, his warm hands finding her waist. His breath was soft against her face, his hands warm through the cloth of her wedding gown.

His eyes sought hers through the silver darkness, his shadowed eyes sparking with warm fire.

"Lalaith nin!" Legolas' words were a soft breath in the warm silence between them as his arms slid suddenly about her and crushed her soft body against the solid heat of his own, eliciting a cry of eager delight from her lips.

A moment of shared wonder passed between them where the soft shadows seemed to shimmer with joyful expectancy before Legolas dipped his head, and the pliant warmth of his lips captured her open, eager mouth. Each of them trembled at the unfettered passion that coursed through them as Lalaith slid her slender arms over his firm shoulders, tangling her fingers into the cool tresses of his hair, returning the swiftly deepening caresses of his sweet mouth with ever growing rapture.

She did not hear the first faint spatterings of rain upon the stones of the balcony beyond the wavering veils of their chamber. Nor did she heed the fluttering of the silver gossamer curtains as a gentle spring storm carried upon a cool night wind scented softly with rain rolled slowly across the valley, sheets of rain spilling now from the sky.

For Lalaith's mind was lost to all else but Legolas; the urgent yet tender power of his embrace, the gentle strength of his warm hands -, And his kisses, falling soft as starlight upon her skin as his fragrant shadow fell over her, and the warm cloud of their wedding bed enveloped them.

...

Dawn was but a vague breath of grey light upon the eastern ridges of the high mountains, their warm violet shadows cut cleanly against the night sky as the hush of the falls surrounding Imladris continued on in a soft whisper. A gentle spring breeze danced upon the freshened air, wafting through the star bathed vale of Imladris. Young leaves and tender pink buds that graced the boughs of trees washed by the rain's caress, fluttered softly at its gentle passing. Through the quiet halls and airy chambers of the great Elven House it dipped and twirled, fluttering curtains, and catching lightly at the low flames of the few lamps that burned.

Out the wide window and over the valley it floated before it met the high cliff face and mounted upward, catching at the silvered foam of the falls that poured eternally about the sheltered valley. Aloft it swirled, until it dipped across the rainwashed stone balustrade of a small, star bathed cottage set high upon a sheltered ledge of the cliff.

Curtains of transparent gossamer bordered the edge of the terrace, fluttering softly as the breeze filtered through, gently stirring the air of the warm, shaded chamber within. The soft flames of candles glowed mutely within the tranquil shadows, and fluttered slightly at the passing of the soft breeze as it brushed the silvery veils that hung in glittering swathes from the banisters about the wide bed set upon a dais in the center of the shaded chamber.

Within the swathe of the fluttering veils, concealed beneath the folds of a silken coverlet, lay two figures tenderly entwined, as a pair of slender young vines woven one about the other. Lost within the realm of their dreams they slept in each other's arms, blissfully unaware of the soft wind that faded at last with a gentle sigh into the reverent quiet of the still air beyond the gossamer curtains that sheltered them. For theirs was the wearied but contented slumber of lovers who had found at last, the sweet fulfillment of their deepest longings, and whose devotion to each other was as eternal as the stars.


	59. Chapter 57

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 57

September 2, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Light filtered gradually into Legolas' eyes, and as he blinked, the veils about their bed billowing softly in the cool breeze of the late morning, slowly coming into focus. He smiled sleepily to himself, content within the warm cocoon in which he was enwrapped. Never did he wish to rise from the warmth of the rumpled coverlet beneath which he lay. Nor could he ever leave, without great reluctance, the company of the woman who lay against him, sheltered within the circle of his arms, her head tucked against his shoulder. Her hair spilled about her where she lay asleep, errant locks straying over her face, and tumbling luxuriously over his bare chest and across their wedding bed like a golden, star washed cloud. One fair, slender arm was flung lazily across his torso, her sleeping fingers flicking lightly against the taut muscles beneath his skin. Her breathing was gentle and even, the touch of her, achingly soft and warm.

"Lalaith?" he questioned softly, his voice warm and breathless as his eyes moved over her face. But she was still deeply immersed in the realm of her dreams.

He smiled wryly, understanding her weariness. For the night before had indeed been-, exhilarating.

Legolas reached a tentative hand out, brushing his finger across her brow and smoothing the hair away to study the tender contours of her face. Her lips, full and sweet, were curled up in a slender smile. And her gentle eyes, clouded over in sleep, gazed contentedly at nothing.

A wave of emotion, painfully sweet, swelled within him as he remembered the way the candlelight, seeping through the swathes of gossamer about their bed, had caught in her golden hair that billowed about her. How it had shone in her eyes within the soft night shadows as the silver sheets of rain washed their balcony beyond the gossamer curtains in ceaseless whispers while the night wound its long course. The way she had gazed up at him through the darkness, her eyes filled with such love, such trust-,

Uttering a quiet murmur of contentment, Legolas eased her warm, supple form ever closer to him. Lalaith sighed contentedly in her sleep at this, the sound coursing through him like the strains of a soft hymn.

"Lalaith nin-," he murmured beneath his breath, bending near and brushing a soft kiss against her sleeping lips, smiling as he felt her faint response. "My joy, my life. My reason for being. As Melian was to Thingol, you are to me."

She sighed softly again, a sleepy smile touching her lips.

A muffled sound beyond the doorway through the far sitting room caused him to lift his head suddenly, and then grin at the sound of two voices speaking softly beyond the door. He recognized the voices of Lady Calassë, and Lady Ithilwen struggling to remain quiet as they giggled furtively and set something upon the stone stoop before the door with a quiet scrape before their hushed voices hurriedly departed.

Legolas smirked, and lay back upon his arm, folded beneath his head, studying the soft gossamer canopy above him as it billowed softly in the morning breeze, contentment and gratitude washing over him like the cool morning wind that filtered through the room.

Lalaith stirred softly against him again and sighed, and he glanced down upon her sleeping face, warmth filling his heart at the sight of her sweetly sleeping features.

She would be hungry when she awakened, Legolas thought to himself suddenly, and with that, he sighed low, and eased himself slowly out of her embrace, careful not to disturb her fair slumber. Freed from the soft, sweet warmth of her, he cast back the silken coverlet, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with a low sigh, sat slowly up, yawning as he stretched his muscles. Legolas sat there a moment, gathering his thoughts, still weary, but pleasantly fulfilled.

His gaze strayed to his right, where his eyes alighted upon their jeweled necklaces that lay entwined upon the polished wood of a small ridge upon the headboard where they had been hastily cast the night before.

"We tossed them there rather haphazardly, did we not?" he muttered ruefully to himself, and picked the jeweled necklaces up, disentangling the wound chains.

After a moment of work, his own medallion rested in one hand, and his bride's jewel twined necklace in the other, the diamonds, emeralds and sapphires glinting in the warm morning light.

"Yet certainly, the Lady Galadriel would be quite understanding of our-, distraction," he added softly as with great reverence, he set them in careful coils again upon the rim of the headboard then bent, and snatched up his breeches where they lay crumpled beside the bed.

Hastily pulling them on, he brushed the gossamer veil aside and rose to his feet, dropped down the steps, and padded barefoot across the cool stones before he dropped down again into the sitting room, and tentatively drew the door open a fraction. Late morning light spilled in, and he blinked his eyes swiftly before they came to rest upon the silver tray propped upon the threshold, bearing two covered platters, and a sealed decanter, water droplets clinging to the bottle's chill, with two empty cups beside it.

Legolas grinned. Breakfast, as he had hoped. Drawing the door more fully open, he stooped to one knee, and gathered up the silver tray quickly, careful not to spill its contents as he returned inside, and pushed the door shut with his foot, ensuring that once again, the latch fell safely into place. He set the tray upon the table, and eagerly lifted the covering from one of the platters. The scent of sweet bread, and of poached eggs sprinkled with mild spices rose up in a pleasant steam, and he grinned, though he let the covering fall back as he glanced toward the bed where Lalaith was slowly stirring beneath the coverlet.

Legolas smiled softly. He would wait for her to awaken. Snatching up a plump pear from the bowl in the center of the table, he hopped back up the low steps into the bedchamber, and strode across the cool stone toward the balcony, skirting the raised bed to pause beside one of the pillars where the curtained veils hung, bordering the terrace beyond. With a sigh, he propped one forearm arm against the cool, grainy surface of the pillar beside his head, and gazed out the fluttering veils into the warm morning, taking a slow bite of the fruit. The golden green skin of the fruit broke beneath his teeth, and he chewed slowly, letting the sweet taste of the soft, juicy pulp fill his mouth before he swallowed. Behind him, Lalaith sighed in her sleep, stirring again, and he glanced over his shoulder to gaze upon his sleeping lover. Her soft, slender form lay concealed beneath the rumpled coverlet, one hand curled adorably against her cheek, the golden cloud of her hair spilling about her head, while the other lay atop the coverlet, across her narrow stomach. He drew in a breath and closed his eyes at the sight, imprinting the fair image of her upon his memory. An image he would carry with him, always. How blessed he was to have such a wife. How blessed!

Turning his eyes again, he gazed out into the morning, over the treetops of Imladris, and drew in a deep lingering breath as he smiled. All was as it should be, and never would harm come near them, again.

...

Lalaith missed him before she was even fully awake. The firm warmth of his body against her own was gone, and her sleepy hands seeking for him, found naught but warm, empty sheets. Moaning softly to herself, she blinked, her dreamscape fading as the waking world came again into focus, and the softly billowing canopy of gossamer above her head came into view. And then-, then she saw him.

Legolas stood with his back to her, his breeches pulled hastily about his lean hips as he stood leaning against one of the pillars bordering the veranda, gazing out into the late morning light as he chewed thoughtfully upon a pear. His hair was slightly ruffled, loosed of its braids, and hanging in a golden cascade over the muscled ridges of his shoulders.

Lalaith drew in a low, slow breath and smiled, studying him as he stood there, fair and tall and flawless in the bold light of the morning. The muscles of his back rippled softly beneath his skin like the surface of a quiet pond as he shifted his weight slightly and released a low sigh, running lean fingers through his unbound hair before he propped his forearm again against the pillar, and continued to gaze out into the morning. His arms were hard and well muscled, his waist firm and taut, the valley of his spine a smooth curve down his lean back. _Ai_, he was beautiful, she mused. And a warm shudder drove through her as she looked upon him and remembered his embrace; tender, powerful, unabated through the long night as the warm spring storm poured its strength upon the sheltered vale. She had known such bliss in his arms-,

Almost as if sensing her eyes upon him, Legolas turned then, and his eyes met hers where she lay upon the bed, watching him. And his gaze grew warm.

"Did you sleep well, beloved?" he asked, his voice a tender caress as he turned, and leaned back against the pillar, observing her with smiling eyes.

"I did," she returned softly, her eyes straying over the firm muscles of his chest and torso. "You?"

Legolas smiled teasingly.

"What little sleep I did have," he smirked, wiping a finger across his juice wetted lips, "was very restful. And I thank you for that, Lalaith nin."

"I am glad," she returned with a soft sigh.

Legolas drew in a deep breath as his bride sat up, allowing the coverlet to fall from her shoulders. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and then gathered a light shift from the floor as his eyes took in her every movement. She reached her arms into the gown, and he watched the cloth tumble over her skin in a fluid wave.

A low sigh escaped him as she rose to her feet, and descended the steps of the dais, gliding slowly to him, her eyes lifted, meeting his.

Smiling, her obliged her as she gathered his hand that held the pear, and drew it to her lips as she took a slow bite of the fruit.

He smiled, and touched his free hand to the tousled gold of her hair, his fingers running through the strands as through liquid gold. "I love you, Lalaith," he murmured simply, and pressed a kiss, soft and lingering, against her brow.

So many times he had spoken those beautiful words to her before, their utterance nourishing her soul upon their long quest, and through the dangers they had faced. And she cherished each word in her memory, like a bright jewel. Yet now that he was truly her husband, such words from him sang through her heart as never they had before.

His eyes darkened and he smiled tenderly upon her. "And I love you," she breathed as she pushed her arms about his torso with a contented sigh, and rested her head against his chest. Legolas grinned softly to this, and set his half eaten pear upon a low plinth beside the pillar and circled his arms about her, drawing her protectively against his firm warmth, his jaw tucked comfortably against her soft, golden hair.

Content they were to stand thusly for a long moment before Legolas drew in a low breath, and began to sing in slow, warm tones,

"Im melin le, lalaith nin.

Le na ithil nin,

le na anor nin,

rûn a annûn.

Im melin le, lalaith nin.

Le na orë nin,

le na elen nin,

arda a menel.

An le na coi nin,

a lalaith nin.

Im melin le."

His voice faded softly into silence, followed by a gentle sigh from Lalaith as she tilted her head, and smiled up into his gentle gaze. Contentedly, she nuzzled against his chest, glancing again with him through the softly billowing veils.

How content she felt, here in his arms.

She lifted her eyes, smiling into his eyes that shone down into hers with adoration and contentment. And she lifted her face eagerly as he bent his head toward her own. Her lips met his own with joyful warmth as his arms tightened about her .

She smiled into the kiss as it grew warmer, and deepened. Indeed, all was as it should be, here with him. Danger and fear was but a distant memory. And never would evil trouble them again.

...

One week later...

Pippin sat upon a stone bench against a vine entwined banister overlooking a merrily flowing stream below. His chin was resting upon his hands folded upon the stone railing where his forearms rested. He had never been so content as he had, this past week since Lalaith's wedding. And now, he was simply happy to sit and do nothing, awaiting the festivities of yet another wedding, tonight. Merry had gone off with Frodo and Sam somewhere in the big house, and Bilbo was with Gandalf and Elrond, somewhere. But Pippin was content to sit, and listen to the laughter of Elflings below where a group of Elf children were playing upon the bank, on a rope swing that hung from the branch of a bent and gnarled tree beside the river.

Breakfast had been marvelous at Elrond's table; porridge with honey and cream, and even bannocks! Ah, under Sam's tutelage, the Elven cooks had learned how to make the loveliest bannocks!

"Peregrin!"

A merry voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced over the railing toward the path below him that ran along the edge of the stream. He grinned and waved at the little Elf maid who had called his name. Wilwarin, her name was, the daughter of Erestor, Elrond's steward. She was dressed in a leaf green dress, looking up at him, her little hands perched on her hips. Her hair, the dark shade of polished wood, fell in a shimmering stream down her back, her brown eyes large and shining, like a fawn's eyes, Pippin thought, as she smiled up at him.

Her friends, two boys and a girl, glanced up at Pippin and waved as they continued their play. The two boys, a dark haired lad named Aronhil, and a lad with golden red hair, Culfin his name was if Pippin remembered rightly, were pushing the other girl, Lótë, Culfin's twin sister, upon the vine entwined rope. Her golden hair was streaming behind her as she swung in an arch out over the water, squealing merrily as she swung back, her eyes alight with joy.

"Mae govannen, Peregrin, i Pherian!" Wilwarin greeted merrily.

"Hullo, Wilwarin! Uh, mae govannen!" Pippin greeted in return. "How are you?"

Wilwarin smirked at this, her fair little nose wrinkling up at his words.

"Man pennich?" she queried, tilting her head to the side. But then she laughed again, and gestured eagerly. "Tolo a telio ammen, Peregrin! Tolo si!"

"You want me to-, come-, and play with you?" Pippin queried.

Wilwarin wrinkled her nose again at his unfamiliar words as Pippin smiled broadly, and moved to hop from the stone bench to his feet. But a movement within the trees on the other side of the river caught his eye, and he spun back, kneeling now on the stone bench as his fingers gripped the stone rail with sudden tightness. His eyes widened at the frightening sight, wondering if what he was seeing could be true. Could it be? Here in Imladris? But when the dark shadow loped through a brief open space, he sat back, his eyes widening in shock.

"Wolf! Wolf!" he hollered, waving frantically toward the dark, slinking creature, half hidden in the brush beside the bank. It paused. Its yellow eyes, as if in annoyed understanding, trailed up to him at the warning sound of his voice. And Pippin paused for the briefest moment, his heart turning to a sudden stone at the cold light in the creature's eyes. There was intelligence there, cold, calculated, cruel intelligence that he had never seen in the eyes of any other beast. A brief flash of chilling recognition knifed through him at the sight of the creature's eyes. He knew those eyes-, somehow.

"You, you Elflings! Come away-," he wailed, and the swing skidded to a stop on the bank as the Elflings below him glanced up in curious wonder, confused at his sudden irritation as he leapt from the stone bench and scampered down the steps that led from the veranda to the trail below.

"There's a wolf over there!" he cried, snatching Culfin's arm and pointing. "A wolf's come into Rivendell!" The Elflings glanced at one another, and across the river where he had pointed. There was nothing there. The wolf had vanished in the brush!

"Ú-chenion, Peregrin," Culfin soothed, patting Pippin's arm, and drawing his own from the Hobbit's grip with unconcerned patience. "Ananta, avo `osto, mellon nin. Yrn ú-na delu!"

The other children glanced at each other, and chortled merrily at Culfin's words before the sound of running feet entered Pippin's ears, and several men, Erestor and Elrond's sons among them, came dashing down the covered portico, and down the stone steps where the children and Pippin stood.

"Ada!" Wilwarin greeted merrily, and Erestor scooped his daughter up as he glanced among the cheerful children, then toward Pippin, his face written with worry.

"What is this about a wolf, Master Peregrin?" Elladan demanded, striding near, with Elrohir at his shoulder, their eyes filled with alarm. "We heard your cries."

"It was across the stream," Pippin gasped, waving a trembling hand behind him, "In the brush. I only saw it a moment, then it ran away."

"Wolves have never come to Imladris, before," Elrohir muttered. "Are you certain?"

"I'd bet a whole pint it was a wolf!" Pippin returned, restraining the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance. "I've seen wolves before. I know what they look like. But-," his voice grew soft, his brow furrowed as he murmured, "But there was something wrong with its eyes-,"

Elladan traded a worried glance with his brother at this. Then he turned to the children, questioning them gently in their own tongue.

Pippin pursed his lips, plopping his hands on his hips as the Elflings shot wide eyes at Elladan's questions, and shook their heads, their voices filled with innocent surprise.

The younger of Elrond's sons sighed at their answers and said nothing as Elladan glanced again to Pippin, his lips pursed.

"I do not doubt you thought you saw a wolf, Master Peregrin," he sighed. "But the children saw nothing."

"But I-,"

"Were a wolf here," Elrohir cut in with a shrug of his shoulders, nodding his head in agreement toward his brother, "they would have seen it, ere you had."

"They were down on the bank. I was up there," Pippin muttered. "They would not have seen it from where they were."

"Peregrin," Elladan returned, a hint of gentle insistence in his tone, "wolves have never dared cross the Bruinen, let alone come through the gates."

Pippin let out a breath of air at this, shook his head, defeated and glanced up at the Elven Lords. They were trying to be kind, he reminded himself. But they simply did not believe him. He glanced again across the river at the spot where he had seen the beast, and shuddered slightly, remembering its eyes. Its cold, chillingly intelligent eyes. They were unlike the eyes of any other mute beast he had ever seen.

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed softly, and felt Elladan's hand clap upon his shoulder companionably.

"Perhaps," Pippin sighed again, "I did not see a-, wolf."

"Often it has happened, Master Peregrin," Elrond's eldest offered understandingly, "that even the most fearless of warriors, after great trauma, as you have endured, see fearsome things that are not there. We do not fault you."

Elrohir offered a small grin of understanding as well, and nodded in agreement to his brother.

Pippin gulped, his eyes turning now upon Elrohir as he muttered, "Your lady, Lord Elrohir. Calassë. Where is she?"

Elrohir shot a glance to his brother, and grinned. "Calassë is with my grandmother, and others of the ladies, in the gardens. Do you wish to speak with her, Master Peregrin?"

"I think-," Pippin drew in a shaking breath. "I think I should."

"I shall take Master Peregrin to her," Erestor offered, speaking in the common tongue as he drew near, Wilwarin still hoisted in his arms, having overheard Pippin's words.

"Nay, Erestor," protested Elladan gently, offering his brother an understanding grin. "You need not be troubled. You have worked yourself overly much these past days, since our return, patiently overlooking our constant desire to shirk our duties, for the sake of our ladies. Do not worry yourself, in this small thing."

"But you cannot take him, my Lord Elladan?" Erestor wondered, his eyes moving between the brothers.

"Alas, I have an appointment I cannot break," Elladan offered with an apologetic shrug, though not without a roguish grin. "And the tradition in our realm to keep the betrothed parted upon their wedding day, is terribly cruel, truly it is, Erestor," he added as Erestor sighed aggrievedly. "And most assuredly, Master Peregrin is a dutiful chaperone."

"Yes, I am!" Pippin offered hurriedly, caring not at all who went with him, only wishing to find Calassë as swiftly as he could.

"Very well then," Elrohir offered, casting a grateful grin toward his brother, "Come with me, Master Peregrin. I will take you to my lady."

...

Miriel moved with swift feet down the portico, her steps playing a staccato upon the stone floor as she made her way toward Elrond's study, sheafs of new, sweet smelling parchment under one arm. She could not help but smile softly to herself, thinking of the one who awaited her, alone in the sweet, musty smelling chamber, imagining his eyes brightening as she entered the room.

She smiled again as she pictured Elrond's eldest son, far more sober than his whimsical younger brother, but just as easily given to humor and merriment in his own way. His firm, muscular arms were strong and protective when he held her close, the scent of his flesh so warm and musky sweet-, his smile always so hopeful, like a youth eager to please. She sighed. And his gentle kisses were ever sweet, sometimes light and shy, sometimes heated with passion, leaving her quavering at the knees. He awaited the day of their bonding with great anticipation. She could see it in his eyes when their gazes met, could feel it at the slightest touch of his hand. Yet he loved her as well, loved her beyond her beauty, her laughter, or all that made her fair. And because of that, they could both wait in patience until their appointed day when their lives together would begin.

She was drawing near to a corner, and eagerly quickened her pace. She rounded the corner sharply, and a soft cry burst past her lips. The sheets of parchment tumbled from her arm to the stone floor as she nearly collided with-,

"Ithilwen!" she gasped in laughter, studying the familiar features of her friend who stood before her, having ground to a halt as Miriel had, and stood back, surveying her with silent eyes.

"I did not expect to see you-," Miriel cut herself off as she dropped to her knees to gather up the scattered paper, though Ithilwen did not move to help her.

Miriel glanced up at her, her smooth brow furrowing, and rose again to face her friend.

"Are you well, Ithilwen?" she asked slowly, adjusting the gathered papers in her arm.

Ithilwen seemed to contemplate the question before she answered slowly, "Yes."

"I saw your betrothed, Glorfindel but a few minutes ago," Miriel offered. "He spoke of his plans to take you, and a lovely basket of food on a late morning excursion out in some distant meadow, before the evening festivities began and I fear I directed him wrongly. For I thought you were with Calassë, and the Lady Galadriel in the gardens."

"I saw him," Ithilwen spoke, her words short and strangely stilted, a crooked grin upon her lips, "Glorfindel-, upon the-, high veranda." A wicked light seemed to glint in Ithilwen's eyes at this, as she smirked at some hidden secret.

Miriel drew in a low breath, stepping back from Ithilwen for a brief moment. For her words had struck a strange and fearful chord within Miriel's heart. There was something wrong. Something-, Her slow, measured words were strange, and unlike Ithilwen. And the dress she wore, hung rumpled about her frame as if it had been drying upon a line, and she had pulled it hurriedly on. It was not one of Ithilwen's own gowns. Miriel would have recognized it. Her feet also, were bare,and strangely caked in mud to her ankles. But the warning in her heart admonished Miriel that there was something more, something deeper beyond what she could see. Something hidden beneath the odd coldness in her eyes.

"Where is Legolas?" Ithilwen asked slowly, in low measured tones. An innocent question it seemed, though at her words, a low warning cried out in Miriel's heart, and she dared not speak. For Ithilwen knew where the prince of Eryn Lasgalen was. Why would she ask? And what need would she have to do so?

Ithilwen scowled at her silence, an expression Miriel had never seen upon the face of the gentle, thoughtful maiden. "Where is he?" she grated impatiently.

Miriel's eyes flitted for a fractioned moment beyond Ithilwen's shoulder across the treetops, and to the side of the mountain beyond the roof of the portico. Her eyes just as quickly, flicked back to Ithilwen's.

"With his wife," she returned noncommitally, her voice stiff. "I must go, Ithilwen, farewell." And with that, Miriel darted about her and fled as if flying from the jaws of death itself. And in her haste to escape, Miriel did not see Ithilwen's eyes narrow as her gaze rose to the cliffside, or the cruel, twisted smile which slowly snaked across her face.

...

translations

the song Legolas sang,

I love you, my laughter,

You are my moon,

You are my sun,

Sunrise and sunset

I love you my laughter,

You are my heart,

You are my star,

Earth and heaven.

For you are my life

And my laughter.

I love you.

Mae govannen, Peregrin, i Pherian! - Well met, Peregrin the Hobbit!

Man pennich? - What did you say?

Tolo a telio ammen, Peregrin! Tolo si! Come and play with us, Peregrin! Come here!

Ú-chenion, Peregrin, - I don't understand, Peregrin,

Ananta, avo `osto, mellon nin. Yrn ú-na delu! - But yet, do not worry my friend. Trees are not dangerous!


	60. Chapter 58

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 58

September 25, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

The glade was awash in morning sunlight, the mood bright and merry as Elrohir and Pippin strode through the trees side by side, their eyes seeking out Calassë in a flock of laughing women who sat upon the wide steps leading from the glade up to the portico of the house, busily twining flowers in long roped garlands. Elrohir's gaze was bright and eager, and Pippin glanced up at the Elven lord through trouble eyes, wishing he had reason to be carefree and merry as well.

The soon to be bride was easy to see, her golden hair catching in the light as she sat in the midst of the other women, for her face fairly glowed as never it had before, listening with a smile, to the furtive whispers of Arwen who sat beside her as they worked.

Calassë's eyes lifted as she listened to her future sister in law's girlish whisperings, and her gaze met Elrohir's across the space between them. Little changed in her countenance, but Pippin was certain her face seemed to glow all the more brightly as her gaze met Elrohir's.

"Ai!" a dark haired maiden shrieked, though her voice was merry as she cried. "He is here! Calassë! Hide!"

Several maidens pushed passed a laughing Arwen to pounced merrily upon Calassë as if to save her away from certain danger, and several others leapt to their feet as if they meant to accost the newly arrived men, and bodily carry them away when a voice behind them stayed them.

"Come now, let them be!" Galadriel commanded with lightness in her voice.

"Indeed!" Aseaiel agreed, laughter in her voice. "I am of your mind, Galadriel. Allow the lad his freedom."

"But my ladies!" one anxious maiden protested. "He is not to see his bride until the feast-,"

A surprisingly ungracious guffaw choked from Galadriel's throat at this, stopping the maiden's words.

"That is a rather inane tradition, I have always thought," the Lady of the Golden Wood confessed.

Shocked silence followed her words, overlaying a quiet tittering that escaped Aseaiel's throat, and Lothirien's who sat near behind Galadriel, running fingers over the slight swell of her belly, a contented, matronly glow upon her face.

"Come, come!" Arwen cut in, rising to her soon to be kinswoman's defense as she shooed away the anxious maidens about Calassë, and helped her to her feet. "As you can clearly see, my friends, my dear brother has even brought a chaperone with him!"

Still, Arwen imposed herself smiling between the betrothed pair as she led Calassë to the foot of the steps, and lifted her brows at her brother, playfully awaiting an explanation of his presence.

"Um," Pippin chirped, and Arwen's gaze fell to his, her smile faltering now at the anxious look in the Hobbit's eyes. "Actually, it was me. I wanted to talk to Calassë."

Calassë turned her smiling eyes now from Elrohir's long enough to see the somber cast of the Hobbit's features, and her lighthearted expression faded as well.

"What is it, Pippin?" she queried gently, coming around Arwen, and addressing the Hobbit. "Come, let us sit down over here-,"

Almost as if she had forgotten the presence of her betrothed, she led the Hobbit by the hand as if he were a child toward the edge of the glade where the trees swayed in the wind. She gestured him to sit down upon the grass, taking a seat herself.

Elrohir, hesitant, followed after with a nudge from Arwen, who looked after him, her mouth pursed, then went to join her grandmother and the others on the steps, weaving the long ropes of their garlands. All eyes trailed now and again from the work in their hands to the young Elven lord as Elrohir seated himself on the grass on the other side of Pippin.

"What is it Pippin?" Calassë asked the clearly troubled Hobbit as she traded a look with her betrothed, whose face had grown somber himself at the bent head and deep sighs of the small Hobbit between them.

"Well, perhaps I'm just over worrying. Perhaps they were right," he gestured with his head, without looking, toward Elrohir beside him. "But-, I remember what you told Lalaith and me in Minas Tirith about your time-, you know, in Orthanc." Calassë pursed her lips at this, her brow furrowed, but she nodded. "You heard all that she said, too, m'lord," Pippin glanced briefly at Elrohir who nodded tersely. "And I think-, I think-, she's here, Calassë."

The warm sun upon Calassë's skin seemed suddenly cold as the Hobbit said these words.

Calassë shivered. Elrohir's hand upon her own helped to still her sudden trembling, and lend courage to her fearful heart as she forced herself to speak, the word coming out in a soft whisper, "Who?"

...

Elladan, seated in a carven wooden chair in his father's wide empty study, and pretending to be deeply absorbed in the book he was reading, jerked slightly, his heart catching on a beat as Miriel, a cluttered sheaf of papers tucked under one arm, darted into the chamber, and set the rumpled sheaf upon a nearby desk.

"Miriel," he murmured, setting aside his book with a half grin as he rose to greet the flushed, gasping maiden. "I am glad you could come-,"

He moved to her, pulling her into his arms, and bending his head to kiss her. But then he stopped. Miriel did not return his embrace with her usual warmth, and he could feel the hurried pounding of her heart as he held her against his chest.

Furrowing his brow, Elladan studied her troubled eyes, and saw more than anxiety there. Indeed, she looked positively frightened!

"What is it, Miriel?" he queried. And to this simple question, Miriel burst into sudden tears.

"Miriel!" he gasped, catching her slender shoulders which shook as she wept. "What is it? Why are you crying?"

"I-, don't know! I don't!" Miriel sobbed, plunging suddenly against his shoulder.

Elladan circled his arms about her, putting a hand against her soft auburn tresses, hushing her softly as he stared, confused at the floor.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" he asked gently.

"Ithilwen," she gasped, drawing back a little, though she didn't raise her eyes to his. "I saw Ithilwen on the portico. She was-, She wasn't herself. There was something-," she broke of, shaking her head.

Elladan's brows furrowed, and he glanced away toward the sky beyond the high fluted windows where a cool spring breeze wafted through. Soft clouds sparse and white, floated lazily across the blue expanse.

"There was something wrong with-, _with her eyes_, Elladan."

His heart was suddenly tight with an inexplicable urgency which he could not yet fathom, and his eyes shot back to Miriel's.

"Her eyes?" he queried, and she nodded to which he drew in a deep breath as the warning in his heart grew and swelled. He did not understand it, could not understand why this warning sounded so loudly in his mind. But he knew suddenly, what he needed to do.

"Come with me," Elladan murmured, and caught her hand within his.

...

A womanly shadow moved quietly and unhurriedly along a shaded pathway, alone with her cold and darkened thoughts. The halls of this fair Elven house were empty, and she was glad for that. Elves of this fair realm it seemed, were all elsewhere, merrily occupied with varied preparations for some feast that was to take place tonight or busying themselves with whatever childish escapades humored their kind, leaving her quite comfortably alone as she made her way along the maze of porticos and steps that rose and fell, and the endless rooms she passed, drawing closter toward the mountain, hoping she might find some narrow path leading up toward the small white cottage tucked like a little bird's nest, on a jutting outcropping of the cliff wall.

"So Legolas belongs to Lalaith now?" her pursed lips muttered softly. "That shall not be for long."

She smirked to herself as she recalled the fair golden haired Elf the little red haired maiden had called Glorfindel. She had seen him from the distance where she had crouched upon her belly in the undergrowth. He had been upon the high veranda, lost in thought, a sickeningly sweet smile upon his lips as he strode purposefully toward some destination. He had not even glanced toward her, for which she was glad, for she had still been shaking from her near discovery by that cursed little Hobbit she had recognized from so long ago. Yet her one sight of the Elf man had been enough for her to sense the thoughts of his mind, drink in the image of the woman he was thinking about, and draw it into herself. She was so much stronger now, than she had once been, as if the power the old broken wizard had ever withheld from her was suddenly released, and belonged solely to her now. Why she suddenly felt this way, she could not begin to guess, but did not care, anyway. All she knew, was that now, she held within herself, the power to change her form entirely, having saved herself from the wolves by focusing upon the beasts' thoughts, and becoming one of them.

Foolish creatures. They had seemed so lost, so confused, when the scent of the human woman they had hunted, had ended in an empty pile of ragged and dirty cloth, where tracks of a single wolf led away.

She had watched the pack from a hill above them, her chin upon her paws as they pawed the ground about her abandoned dress, and howled at the sky in their frustration. She would have laughed aloud if her furry, elongated muzzle had aloud such sounds. Yet she had managed a soft gurgled growl at the stupidity of the beasts before she rose, turned away from them, and trotted onward toward her destination, four legs faster now than two.

She smirked, recalling the first time she had ever used the gift the old wizard had bestowed upon her, his hope having been that she might gain a queen's crown, and help seal his hold over Rohan.

Poor sweet, simple Ceorl, she thought to herself with a muffled laugh, remembering the handsome sentry at Meduseld she had watched often. Handsome though he was, he had not been as comely as the king's son, nor any of the other hapless young men she had ensnared. Perhaps she had wished for him because she was bored. Rumors of her were becoming known, to all others aside from the king, and young men no longer wished to court her. None wished to fall into the net of her sweet lies, and false promises, trusting in her assurances that she loved them, and would wed them afterwards, though she never did. Or perhaps it was simply because the hunt was so much more difficult because he was already married, and deeply in love with his wife.

Poor honest Ceorl had already rejected her once, before the wizard gifted her the power that she might ensnare the king's son. His words had been to ensnare the prince as quickly as she could, yet she had not wished to, not yet. For Ceorl's usually slender, lovely wife was far gone with child, large as a house, and clumsy as an old cow, and weary, night and day, with the burden of her child. How could such a woman please her husband any more? Surely now, she was certain, with but very little persuasion, Ceorl would give her what she wished before she ensnared her prize, and became queen of Rohan. Still, Ceorl remained steadfast to his wife, spurning her with greater disgust and vehemence than before, even to speaking to the king and all the court, of what she had done. Yet her brother had viciously denounced Ceorl as a cruel liar, and the king, under his counselor's influence, had done nothing to punish her, leaving Ceorl without recourse. And though she hated Ceorl now, she had merely waited and watched, patient as a little spider in the shadows, all the while, discovering the true strength of the power that she held.

For the power did not simply enhance her beauty in the eyes of the king's son, but made her appear in the fairest form any man wished to see. She simply found that by training her thoughts upon the mind of the man she chose, she could draw the image of the woman he loved into herself, and become as that woman appeared. She had found over time, to her amusement, that she could peer from her bedroom window upon the crowd below, and become even as a small girl, were she to focus on the mind of a boy who had a liking for a little maid, or she could appear as aged and bent as an old crone, whose husband of many decades still doted faithfully upon her. She had rejoiced in her new power, waiting patiently until one night, confused by drink, and struggling to make his way home alone, for he had left his friends early to return to his wife, Ceorl had stumbled across her, where she waited for him, upon the path. She had taken on the form of Ceorl's cherished little wife as the woman had been before she had grown large with child, and lured the poor fool into a shadowy, deserted stable by the gate. Befuddled by drink and forgetfulness, and thinking her to be his own dear wife, he at last, gave her what she had long sought for.

A smile of cold humor touched her face as she strode along. For she would never forget the look upon poor, poor Ceorl's face, when he woke up in the straw with her in his arms, and not his little wife! Oh, he'd wept like a child, she remembered, stifling a laugh behind her hand, recalling his hopeless sobs as she's donned her garb and blithely left him behind to his own pathetic sorrow. She had returned hurriedly up the hill to smile like a shy maiden upon the king's son, and offer him a few light words, pretending to be ignorant to his coldness, and then shield herself behind the king's mumbled words and the decrees issued from the lips of her brother as she awaited Ceorl's coming. For Ceorl would surely come, fuming in his wrath, to demand retribution. Or perhaps his wife would come lumbering in womanly rage to demand reprisal on her.

And she had waited there, nervously beside the shriveled form of the king, and her brother, silent upon the king's other side. But neither Ceorl nor his little wife had come. It was not until later, when Ceorl had failed entirely to arrive for his time of duty, that another soldier had come striding swiftly into the hall, distraught. Ceorl's body had been found, the man said his eyes wide with shock and bewilderment, hanging from the rafters of a deserted stable. The very stable where he had unwittingly spent the night with her, she realized.

She had felt nothing. Nothing beyond a faint nervousness that others would discover that she had driven the fool to his death. But naught had ever come of her fears. Why Ceorl took his own life ever remained a mystery to all but her. It had been but a few weeks later when Ceorl's little wife had, in her grief and confusion over the loss of her dear husband, gone into the labor of birth far before her appointed time. The baby boy, small and weak, had barely lived, though his mother had not been as fortunate, passing beyond the bonds of life, to join her slain husband.

She sniffed loudly to herself. She had again taken the news with an empty heart. Fools they had both been, worthless fools to be so weak.

Weak as the pathetic, creeping men, her thoughts grew bitter, the old ragged wizard Saruman, and her pale, angry brother. Entrapped with them, she had had nothing to do but wait, for death or release. And during the long dragging days, she had sequestered herself in empty echoing rooms away from the cold eyed wizard and her simpering brother as she slowly taught herself the tongue of the Elves from the wizard's old, musty books.

The portico down which she strode so swiftly, curved sharply about a corner, and fell suddenly down a set of stone steps to an stone paved circle surrounded by trees where several earthen paths conjoined about a small, clattering fountain in the center where a stone Elf maiden with a frozen smile poured an endless stream of water from her pitcher into the basin at her feet. Tentatively, she dropped gradually down the steps and paused at the fountain, glancing about herself. The other pathways, twining through the trees and the thick undergrowth, disappeared quickly from her view, trailing off to uncharted places of this Elven realm. But only one path caught her eye, branching up a low hill through the trees, and toward the rising cliff beyond. Cold glee touched her heart, yet she did not smile. For away and down the slope of the hill, she could hear distantly, bright laughter and many merry voices joined in whimsical song. Elves, she realized, her teeth clenching in irritation, but what set fear crackling along her veins, was the sound of a woman's voice bright with laughter, followed by a man's, their footsteps coming quickly nearer along the portico behind her. So near, that in only a moment, they would come within sight of her.

With a stifled gasp, she darted quickly down a small, narrow path, little used it seemed, that carried her down a steep hill and away from the house.

The voices were nearer now, and she turned nervously about just as the trees broke around her, and she stumbled to a halt in a level, open space.

"Ai! We are well met!" a man's voice behind her speaking in the tongue of the Elves, caused her to spin, and she came face to face with a smiling Elf man who stood within the ample clearing before a table beside a glowing forge. He was a metal smith, she surmised, and remembered now, hearing the musical ringing of a smithy's hammer as she had been trotting through the trees earlier, but had thought nothing of it. In his hand was a candle stick, newly made, and upon the table behind him, was its mate. A long, slender knife rested there as well. Its hilt was elegantly crafted, but its blade was slightly notched, and tarnished. It waited for repair perhaps, though the smith seemed in no hurry to attend to the task, intent as he seemed, on the two candlesticks. And indeed, the knife looked like a tool of war, for which there was no longer an urgent need. She smirked. Or so the Elves thought. His blond hair had been bound back with a strip of leather, and he wore a thick leather apron as well. Leather gloves he had worn, but had set aside.

The man's smile grew as he turned fully toward her, setting the candle stick down beside its mate. "This is a surprise, my sweet wife. I thought you were down in the glade with the Lady Galadriel, and King Thranduil's queen, readying everything for the wedding of Lord Elrohir, and his lady, the fair Calassë. Would that I could have aided in that merry endeavor, but my final duties, finishing their gifts, have kept me here. Your gown. It is new?"

Her brows shot up, and she glanced down at herself. Red hair fell about her shoulders now, instead of golden as before, and she glanced up again at the man, her eyes traveling over his fair, sturdy form as she smiled slowly. She and this fair, beautiful Elf man were alone in this cool, shady clearing. And he thought she was his wife. Her heart quickened, and her memory darted back to Ceorl. Though she had experienced many mortal men, she had yet to ensnare an immortal Elf. Even if this Elf were not Legolas, he was just as beautiful.

"Fair indeed is the lady-, Calassë," she agreed in the tongue she had painstakingly studied, drawing several steps nearer to the man, "but not as fair as I."

The man's brows raised, "Let it not be said," he laughed softly, "that Aewien, the wife of Arphen, and mother to fair Miriel who claimed the heart of Lord Elrond's eldest, is less beautiful than any other woman of the Eldar." he agreed, and a half grin came to his face as he stepped forward, catching her hand within his own. She drew in a quick breath. His hand was warm, soft in spite of calluses, and possessing gentle strength, like Legolas' hands. But the moment his hand touched hers, Arphen's countenance changed. A look of troubled confusion cast itself across his fair face. He dropped her hand as if it were hot, and stepped back, studying her face as if for the first time, his eyes delving deep into her own, his face no longer smiling.

His brows knit together as a look similar to the red haired maiden she had met earlier, came over his face, and she cursed the Elf inwardly as she fell back against the table where he had stood a moment before, causing the candlesticks to rattle slightly, her hands ducking behind her back.

"Lady-," he began softly, his voice one of gentle confusion as she set her jaw, shifting her weight slightly.

"My friend, Arphen," a deep and gravelly voice called suddenly from behind her, and Arphen glanced away from her, missing the look of abject terror that claimed her eyes at the sound of the voice.

Gandalf smiled as he stepped into the clearing where the Elven forge stood, and leaned upon his staff as he smiled upon Arphen who stood in the center of the clearing, looking slightly dazed and confused, his eyes trained with a pleading look upon the wizard.

"Mithrandir," he murmured, stepping forward and offering the wizard a short bow. "I am honored."

He said nothing more, but Gandalf pursed his lips. There seemed in the manner of the Elf, to be something that troubled him. And the air in the clearing seemed to linger with a sense of coldness and unease, though nothing, at first, seemed out of place.

"The ringing of your hammer ended quite some time ago." Gandalf smiled, "There is one who thought to come and see if you wished for any refreshment. Something compelled me to come along as well, though perhaps it is only your dear Aewien's skill at cooking that brought me along," Gandalf kept his voice jovial for the Elf's sake, though Arphen hardly smiled at his words.

"I-," Arphen glanced behind him toward the table where sat a pair of candlesticks. He glanced toward the cooling embers of his forge. "Where is she-," he turned back to Gandalf, a look of depleted confusion cast across his face before a voice behind him caused a deep breath to swell within the Elf's lungs.

"Arphen!" Aewien, his wife, clad in a merry gown of crimson hemmed in gold, came hurrying from the trail behind Gandalf, bearing a small basket over one arm to stop suddenly, smiling like an eager maiden, a few steps in front of Gandalf. The wizard grinned at this, but more at the look of relief that rose in the face of the Elven smith as he rallied, and grinned broadly at his wife, whose auburn tresses matched so well, the gown she was clad in.

"Aewien," he breathed, and stepped forward, catching his wife's hand, and turning it over in his own, as if seeking for something. He glanced up, searching her eyes, and smiled at what he saw.

"We thought to bring you refreshment," Aewien offered, holding out the basket in her arm, laden with several apples, a warm loaf of new bread, two small crocks of honey and butter, and a fat bunch of grapes.

"You gown is crimson," Arphen observed curiously, ignoring the tempting basket, and glancing between his wife and Gandalf with silent questions in his eyes. "It is not cream white, with silver upon the hems."

"Indeed not," Aewien laughed, glancing over her shoulder at Gandalf who smiled upon the Elven couple. "I have worn this since I rose, this morning. You were gone before I-,"

"Who was here a moment ago?" Arphen cut it, suddenly insistent. "Scant moments ago! Surely you saw her as you came, Master Mithrandir?"

Gandalf drew a step forward at the Elf's agitation, trading a look with the wide eyed lady.

"No one was here when I arrived," Gandalf returned gently.

"Then she fled?" Arphen wondered. "A woman who, in all appearance, looks no different than you-," he glanced pleadingly toward his wife, his grip upon her hand tightening. "Only in the touch of her hand, could I discern she was not mine-, And in her eyes I noted, though not at first, a darkness that is not in yours-,"

A shadow fell across Gandalf's heart as Arphen spoke these words. But darker still the shadow grew as Arphen turned away and paused, studying the candlesticks that stood side by side upon the table.

"Lady Lalaith's knife," he muttered, his voice heavy as if he were suddenly sickened. "It was here-, damaged slightly by one of the Nazgûl, she said. She wished it repaired by Elven hands, but she told me there was little need for haste. I had meant to see to it, when the weddings were all fulfilled-, but-, it is gone."

Gandalf drew in a deep sigh at this, and glanced long between Arphen and his wife before he spoke softly, "Of course it is gone." He gulped, hating the words he knew he must speak. And I know who has taken it."

...

Oh, she hated Elves! She fumed to herself as she pushed her way through the heavy undergrowth, struggling to find a path that would lead her toward the mountain. She unconsciously rubbed at a small scar upon her forearm. It never disappeared, no matter what form she took upon herself, and she thought dark thoughts of Lalaith who had given her this scar, so long before. Oh, she hated that wench! And that cursed little Hobbit who had been with the Elf woman that night, the troublesome little beast who had seen her in her wolf form as she trotted through the shadows of the trees. It seemed as if everyone she hated, was in this little Elven valley! That wretched Hobbit, Lalaith, who now lay claim to Legolas, and even Gandalf! Cursed wizard!

A lock of red hair brushed her cheek, and she only frowned all the more deeply.

Despite herself, she groaned aloud as she pushed it aside. Red hair! By all the dead, she hated red hair! For it recalled to her memory a frail little boy in Edoras who clung to his grandmother's skirts and met her gaze with large accusing eyes, so like Ceorl's. For his hair, was red. Like his father's. Ceorl's son, despite her hopes, had not died. The brat lived still. Like a thorn in her side, reminding her every day of what she had done. Though she felt nothing for it.

Clenching her jaw, she closed her eyes, recalling the memory of the Elf called Glorfindel, training her thoughts on him, and she smiled as she felt the change crackling along her veins. Opening her eyes, she sighed, satisfied at the golden hair that spilled again about her shoulders.

She reached into the voluminous sleeve of the dress she wore, and touched a hand to the pommel of the knife hidden there. And at the feel of the smooth haft, she smiled silently to herself.

...

Lalaith felt nothing but happiness and absolute contentment as she strolled slowly along beside Legolas, her arm linked through his as they made their way along a shaded path that snaked beside the foot hill of the mountain. The thickly twined branches above their heads were shot through with spears of golden morning light that lighted in mottled patterns upon the earthen path before them. Legolas sighed softly beside her, reaching with his free hand, and caught her fingers where her arm looped through his. He squeezed gently and she eased nearer to him, resting her cheek contentedly against his shoulder. They had not gone directly down to their kin, but wandered here along these joining, twining paths, beneath the peace of the trees, knowing that soon, they would join their kin, yet content, for the moment, with each other.

She smiled to herself, recalling their leisurely morning earlier in their little cottage upon the cliff, savoring the sweet intimacy which their new marriage and their solitude afforded them. They had risen from bed only after the morning had grown late, and eaten breakfast at an unhurried pace as they had every morning since their wedding. Yet knowing that this was the day Elrohir and Calassë were to wed, they had with mixed reluctance and gladness, donned their festive apparel, and left their cherished little haven to join their kin at last.

"A lovely day this is becoming," Lalaith murmured softly.

"Lovely indeed, for the Lady Arien made it so," Legolas returned, a teasing smile upon his face as he glanced askance, at his wife. "She knew you would be walking beneath her light today, and wished to pay obeisance to your beauty."

"Ai, my husband," Lalaith scolded softly, though she smiled as she did, and snuggled more closely against him as they walked. "Shall you never grow weary of praising my beauty?"

"No," Legolas quipped with a chuckle. "Though I could speak of other things, if you wish for me, too.

"For," Legolas continued, "I could speak of your valor, of your courage undaunted in battle. Or I could speak of the gentleness of your heart, of your kindness, and compassion. And your true, unwavering friendship."

Legolas drew to a stop and reached for Lalaith's hands, turning her so that she faced him.

"I could speak of many things," he breathed, his hands squeezing her own gently. "For I love all that you are, Lalaith nin."

"I have faults, Legolas," she murmured, ducking her head like a shy maiden. "This, you know well-,"

"Yes," he cut in gently, lifting a hand and touching her chin, tilting her gaze upward, to meet his own. "I know it. And you know that I too have faults, yet you still love me." He smiled warmly and breathed, "Any small weakness you have, Lalaith, is nothing compared to the goodness that is your very essence."

Lalaith sighed softly, studying her husband's eyes, the light that shone in them, and the soft curve of his mouth drawn up in a boyish smile.

"And shall you still adore me so, when we have been married for hundreds of years, when I am large with child, and cry inconsolably over nothing?" she returned teasingly, studying his smiling eyes.

Legolas' smile curled upward as he gathered Lalaith to him, and held her close. "I shall only love you more, then," he breathed against her hair.

Lalaith blushed at the sincerity and passion with which her husband spoke. She smiled against his chest and murmured, "You make me so happy, Legolas."

"And you make me happy, Lalaith. More than can be expressed in any tongue."

Lalaith sighed contentedly, and nuzzled against the warm strength of his chest, quietly contemplating the steady beat of his heart.

"Your soul is a part of mine," Legolas murmured, his hand smoothing softly over her hair, "as mine is a part of yours. Ever will we be one until Arda is unmade, and surely, even beyond that-," He stirred slightly, and she drew back to peer up at his eyes.

"We complete each other Lalaith," he sighed warmly. "We strengthen each other. We are as all those who have truly loved through the ages. As Beren and Lúthien, as Melian and Thingol," he smiled briefly. "As Aragorn and Arwen-," His forehead came to rest against hers, and he hissed with soft passion, "Glad I am that I make you happy, Lalaith. For nothing else brings me greater joy."

Lalaith smiled, and tipped face upward, her mouth seeking his, before a sound unexpected, broke through the silence surrounding them, the sound of soft laughter and of light feet hurrying toward them along the trail behind them.

Glancing at each other in silent question, they broke apart as a breathless woman darted suddenly into sight around a bend in one of the branching trails, her eyes raising suddenly to find theirs.

Lalaith smiled at the sight of her, and Legolas too, grinned at the maiden's surprise.

"Ithilwen!" Lalaith greeted with a laugh.

...

"Father," Elladan called out, raising a hand in greeting as he strode swiftly across the green sward toward Elrond where the Lord of Imladris stood back beside Celeborn as well as Aragorn, King Thranduil, and Haldir. Gimli and four of the Hobbits stood near as well, a number of young Elfling lads scattered among the Pheriain. Peregrin, Elladan noted with a furrowed brow, was seated upon the grass off on the edge of the wide meadow, between Elrohir and Calassë. Though the Hobbit was clearly not playing the part of the diligent chaperone between besotted lovers, for the three of them were somber faced, the head of the Hobbit and the maiden were near one another as they spoke in furtive whispers as Elrohir hovered near, listening in grave seriousness to their words, the three of them entirely ignorant of the festive air in the meadow before them. A group of bright eyed maidens, with Arwen, Galadriel and Queen Aseaiel twined braded ropes of flowers up the railing that edged the stone steps leading down into the garden, singing a lilting song as they did. Bilbo was sitting upon a chair beside one of the tables, and the other three stood nearby, their coats shed, and the sleeves of their little homespun shirts rolled up to their elbows. The Elflings stood about Gimli and the Hobbits, vying for their attention, the loose sleeves of their tunics humorously rolled in the same manner as the Hobbits' shirt sleeves. The Elves and Aragorn likewise, wore no robes but rather rough, plainly woven tunics. For all of them had aided in the moving of many tables and chairs earlier onto the grassy meadow in anticipation for the evening's ceremony and festivities.

"Elladan!" Elrohir called out in welcome as he turned, and nodded toward his son, and Miriel, hurrying along at his side. "Miriel. It is good to see you both." His eyes twinkled with a merry light, and Elladan's heart smote him that the purpose of his mission had need to be so grave. "Are you so soon finished with your-, ah, work in my study?"

Elrond paused, studying the troubled look in his son's eyes, and his smile faded. "What is it, my son?"

"There has come a matter of some urgency, father. One which I must speak of with you, as well as with Master Peregrin, and with Lady Calassë."

Elrond's brows furrowed, and he gestured toward the sitting trio, bidding his father in law a short farewell as he and his son, with Miriel, started toward the two Elves and the Hobbit who were seated away from the others, upon the grass.

"Does it concern the wolf Master Peregrin claims to have seen?" Elrond asked in soft tones. "Erestor assured me, there was no wolf. That young Peregrin was-, mistaken."

Elladan traded a grave look with his betrothed. "And I am certain that Erestor is correct," he agreed. "But-,"

"But there is still a danger here, my lord," Miriel cut in urgently. "A danger far more deadly than a wayward wolf."

Elrond seemed slightly taken aback by these words as he glanced toward his future daughter in law.

"And what would that danger be?" he asked, his voice deepened, and somber, to which Miriel and Elladan glanced toward each other, at a loss.

...

"I saw her change, occasionally," Calassë's soft words answered in response to something the young Hobbit has asked her as Miriel with the two lords beside her, stopped before the Hobbit and his companions. Elrohir glanced up at his father and brother, and rose to his feet nodding a silent greeting, but neither the Hobbit nor the golden haired maiden noted them, so engrossed were they, in their conversation.

"But she only ever changed into the image of Lady Éowyn to mock her brother, and then only briefly," Calassë continued. "Never did she appear as anyone-, or anything else while she dwelt at Orthanc. For she could not even take upon her the form of an orc. I know, for she tried, but could not do it. Only the Children of Ilúvatar, close kin to her, mortals and Elves, could she imitate-,"

"But I saw her eyes!" the young Hobbit continued earnestly. "They were_ hers_, Calassë!" the Hobbit released a noisy sigh as his arms rose and fell in restrained frustration.

Calassë sighed as well, her eyes worried, and shrugged in silent helplessness. "If you are right, Pippin-," she muttered, her words breaking off into ominous silence.

"Calassë," Miriel muttered softly, squeezing Elladan's hand as the words the two spoke, weighed down upon her heart. Calassë turned her eyes up toward her friend, and her already worried expression grew only more so at the look upon Miriel's face.

"My lord," she murmured to Elrond as she rose to her feet. But Calassë's eyes did not leave Miriel's as Pippin too, stood, dusting himself off, his soft little face troubled and tense.

"You speak of a woman who can change her appearance, Calassë? An ally of Saruman?" Miriel murmured softly in the Common Tongue, that the Hobbit could understand. She felt herself trembling, and Elladan at this, tightened his grip upon her hand.

Calassë nodded, her face grown unsure.

"She's from Rohan," Pippin offered.

"She could see into the very heart of a man, and change into the image of the woman he finds most beautiful," Calassë offered wearily.

Miriel's face crumpled into her hand at this, recalling the words of the woman she had met upon the portico, the smug victory in her eyes when she had spoken of seeing Glorfindel upon the veranda.

"But surely-," Calassë glanced pleadingly down at Pippin, "she was slain by wolves as Saruman said, and even if she lives, her power has died-,"

"If only that were so."

The warm gravelly voice behind her was filled with wistful sympathy, and Miriel turned to see Gandalf striding near with her parents arm in arm, behind him. Her eyes fixed upon her father, whose face, still slightly smudged with soot, appeared slightly stricken, her mother glancing at her husband in attentive sympathy.

"For I am afraid that the little spider is indeed, quite alive, and more poisonous than ever."

"Forgive me, Master Gandalf," Miriel offered, bowing her head toward the wizard. "Who-?"

"Her name, my dear," Gandalf sighed deeply, "is Greta."

A soft choking cry broke quietly from Calassë's throat at the sound of the name, and Gandalf turned sympathetic eyes upon her as Elrohir moved near, sliding an arm about her shoulders protectively.

Gandalf sighed as he murmured, "Greta has come to Rivendell."

...

"Legolas?" Greta called, her voice low and sweet as she pushed the door of the small cottage open, and stepped into the warm shadows of the fore chamber.

"Legolas?" she called again, her voice echoing in the silence.

With a low sigh, she shut the door behind her, and stood alone a long moment, her eyes closed, as she drank in the scent of the room. Legolas. She could remember him well, the warm rich scent of him as she stood so near to him in the stable in Edoras, his mouth hovering so near her own. Would that she had spoken the tongue of the Elves then, Greta lamented, opening her eyes, and drawing near the table where two trays sat, the remnants of breakfast growing cold on two plates. She would have convinced him then, that she was indeed the woman he wished her to be. She would have achieved her desire, then.

Two goblets sat upon the table as well, both still half full of sweet fruity wine, and one Greta picked up, drawing it to her lips. This had been Legolas' cup, she sighed to herself remembering his scent as she ran her tongue over the cool metal of the rim before tipping the cup, and draining the sweet contents.

With a quick breath, she clapped the goblet down, and glanced at the other one with a twisted half smile before her hand shot out, slapping the goblet over with the back of her hand. The goblet's crimson contents splashed like spilt blood from a sudden wound across the table as the cup itself rolled in a slow arc toward the edge of the table where it teetered, then tipped, falling over the edge with a clank to the stone floor below.

She smirked to herself as she turned away, and rose up the steps into the wide bedchamber fixing her eyes upon two wooden trunks carved with intricate designs and set with wrought metal. The sat near one wall, and slowly Greta dropped to her knees between them, lifting up the lid of the first.

Women's clothing, Lalaith's, Greta realized with a sneer. She snatched the neckline of a dark blue gown, and whipped it out, holding it up to the late morning light. The throat had been delicately embroidered with gold thread, as had the sleeves been. Surely it was one of her favorites, to be folded with such care, and laying at the top.

With this thought, Greta snatched the Elven knife folded in her sleeve, and drew it out. With a cold laugh she stabbed the helpless gown, punching through the cloth and shredding through it once, twice, and again, and again, until the fabric hung in limp ribbons. She cast the ruined gown aside, and it crumpled like a slain enemy to the floor as she snatched the lid of the second trunk and threw it open greedily, laughing aloud in delight at the sight of Legolas' garb. With wild fervor, Greta began digging through the piles of cloth. Beneath a layer of finer robes, she noted the green and brown jerkin she remembered he had been wearing when they had first met. Pausing in her feverish search, she sighed and drew the thick garment out, bringing it to her face hungrily drinking in the scent of him as she closed her eyes.

"Legolas," she breathed aloud. "I should have been yours. I wanted you. You should have loved me-,"

Her words failed her as her eyes drew open, and strayed up to the bed. A wide, magnificent bed of polished wood with high posts, and delicate gossamer curtains hanging about it, wafting softly in a gentle breeze that stirred the air in the room.

Greta's jaw grew tight as her eyes took in the tousled sheets, and anger grew hot in her belly at the renewed realization that Lalaith had claimed him, and she had not.

Cursing Lalaith aloud, Greta slammed the lid of Lalaith's trunk roughly shut and with an angry grunt, she grasped the wooden trunk by the fine, ornate handles on both sides, and hoisted it up in her arms. Hefting its weight, she made her way around the dais the bed rested upon, and through the billowing gossamer curtains that bordered a balcony overlooking the valley.

Cool wind washed her face as she hefted the small wooden trunk with a grunt to the sturdy stone balustrade, and with a satisfied smile, glanced over the side, peering downward at the rocky slope below her, carven white stone interspersed with trees and shrubbery clinging to the steep slope.

Without further hesitation, Greta let the trunk tip, and with a loud scrape, it slipped from the stone, and hurtled downward through space until in a shattering crash, the trunk smashed upon the slope of jutting white rock below. Shards of wood and colorful fragments of cloth spilled down the cliff, fluttering into the silence of the wind brushed trees that clung to the sides of the steep slope.

With a satisfied sneer at the scene below her, Greta dusted her hands free, and turned away, her grin falling away into a gasp of shock at the sight of the fair Elf woman before her clad in a loose gown of light-weight cloth of sky blue bound beneath her breasts with a ribbon, and hanging over her body in loose folds. Her golden hair hung loose about slender shoulders, and her blue eyes were wide in disappointed shock.

"Ithilwen!" the Elf woman gasped. "I was gathering water from the fountain below for the ladies, and I saw you-, Why did you come here, to the private dwelling of Lalaith and Prince Legolas? Why have you treated Lalaith's things thusly?"

"Because I hate her!" Greta grated fiercely through her teeth. "As I hate you all!"

The Elf woman fell back a step, her eyes searching Greta's deeply, cold fear drawing across her expression as her gaze pierced the shadows of Greta's soul, and a hand flew in a protective gesture to her stomach, which Greta noticed for the first time, was swollen slightly. She carried a child within her, and at this realization, the cold sneer began to return to Greta's face.


	61. Chapter 59

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 59

October 7, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Lothirien narrowed her eyes at the woman who stood before her, like Ithilwen in appearance, but now as she studied her eyes, she could see a darkness there that did not live in the eyes of the maiden who had gained Lord Glorfindel's love. Her feet were bare, Lothirien noted now, and caked in mud as if she had walked barefoot for some distance.

"You are not Ithilwen," she murmured, drawing back a step, and the woman grinned at this, and came forward, the gleam of a knife shining in her hand. Lothirien's heart leaped.

"Indeed not," the woman hissed darkly, and before her eyes, her appearance changed, her features shifted-, a face Lothirien did not know appeared, her ears rounded, her hair darkened nearly black now, yet her eyes remained cold and cruel.

"You have yourself a man, clearly," the woman's gaze flashed to Lothirien's belly, and back again to her eyes, as she spatted the gossamer curtains aside and advanced on her as Lothirien continued to back away through the room. "Tell me," she demanded as a twisted smirk came to her lips, "are Elven men as fiery when they are- unleashed as I imagine them to be?"

Lothirien scowled in disgust at the impious query. "What are you doing here, in Imladris?" she barked. "Who are you, and why have you come here, to Lalaith's dwelling of all places?"

The woman smirked. "Such things, you shall never know."

And with this, the woman lashed out with a snarl, her face twisted in fury like the faces of the uruk-hai Lothirien had faced at Helm's Deep.

Her instincts screaming, Lothirien twisted to the side as the knife slashed past. She snatched the woman's wrist and twisted with one hand, striking the woman hard in the mouth with her other fist as she did, so that the blade flew away from the woman's loosened grip, spinning through the air, to land with a clatter, several paces away.

The mortal howled in rage at this, and wrenched away from Lothirien's hold as her fist flew out, catching Lothirien on the cheek with a jarring crack, her strength surprising for a slender mortal woman. Lothirien twisted as she fell, her side taking the brunt of her fall as she landed roughly upon the stone tiles. The woman was already scrambling away from her, across the room to where the knife lay. And were her thoughts not focused upon her small one and his safety, Lothirien would have done so as well in the hope that she might reach the blade before the mortal. She knew how to fight. Haldir himself, and the other warriors of Lórien had taught her. And she did not fear for her own life, or doubt her skill. This woman clearly wished harm upon Lalaith, though what Lalaith could have done to incite such murderous rage, Lothirien could not guess. She wished to protect her friend, but Lothirien could also feel the the soul of her little one within her, slowly so slowly, awakening, and she glanced up, seeing the main door through the sitting room still blessedly ajar, late morning light spilling in. She would carry him away from here. She would not risk his precious life. And with that, she leapt to her feet, and darted away, bounded down the steps into the sitting room in one jump, and fled out the door, flying down the steps with the speed of a frightened bird fleeing the deadly talons of a hawk.

...

Lalaith laughed aloud, her arm linked through Ithilwen's as the two women tripped lightly along the trail that led toward the open glade where Elrohir's wedding was to be that evening. In her other arm, she carried the empty food basket the betrothed pair had brought back with them, the light weight of it swinging about on her arm as the two women fairly skipped along in mutual giddiness.

"You jest, Ithilwen, surely!" she gasped amidst laughter. "The squirrel landed right in your lap?"

"Indeed it did!" Glorfindel offered, cutting in on the women's conversation as he and Legolas followed behind, smiling at the merriment of their ladies. "As we were there, eating on the grass. The little creature dropped down from a branch, just above her shoulder. My lady was startled enough that she screamed as if the sky was falling down upon our heads!"

Legolas laughed aloud at this as Lalaith smiled, squeezing her hand as Ithilwen rolled her eyes.

"Glorfindel!" Ithilwen protested merrily, casting him a bright eyed glare over her shoulder but her betrothed ignored her. "You exaggerate! I gasped out a little, is all. And it was so sweet! It was after a small nut that was on the grass near my knee. It jumped from the branch above into my lap, and promptly caught up the nut, then took its leave. Startled though I was, I was not afraid!"

"Nor was our little friend, the squirrel, it seemed," Glorfindel returned, stepping forward quickly to plant a quick kiss on the back of his beloved's head. "It could sense your inner sweetness, and knew you were no danger to it."

The four of them paused as the trail opened up into a small clearing bordered on one side by a set of steps leading up to the high roofs of the house. A small clattering fountain sat in the center of carved paving stones in the circled clearing where several paths led in different directions. A small silver pitcher sat abandoned at the feet of the smiling stone maiden from whose pitcher poured an endless stream of water.

Ithilwen turned to look up at the face of her betrothed, a smile touching her lips as she did before her eyes turned toward a sudden sound as of feet running down one of the several trails that meandered through these shaded trees, and Lalaith's mouth opened in a soft expression of surprise that the sound was coming down the trail that led up to the cottage on the cliff.

Even more surprised was she, when a woman came into view. Lothirien, a dark bruise upon one cheekbone, and confused pleading in her eyes, skidded to a stop on the flagstones at the sight of them.

"Lalaith!" she cried out, breathless, and darted forward, snatching her hand swiftly, and glancing again over her shoulder as if she expected pursuit

Lalaith, taken aback, trading a confused glance with Legolas, though he had no more understanding than she did.

"Lothirien, my friend!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

"There is a woman here!" Lothirien gasped, looking at Ithilwen with a deep glance, before seemed to be satisfied at what she saw.

"A mortal woman, come to Imladris," she continued. "She was only now in your cottage-,"

A shudder wormed its way through Lalaith's body at these words, and thoughts, frightened and formlessly dark, swirled in her mind. No, it could not be.

"A mortal woman, my lady?" Glorfindel queried, his eyes, and those of Ithilwen written with confusion. "None of the guests in our realm are mortal, but for men, Lord Aragorn, Master Gimli, and the Pheriain-,"

Lothirien shook her head, her brow furrowed with worry. "Yes, my lord, I know that! But she has come from far away, and in secret. And she can-," Lothirien's grip tightened upon Lalaith's hand. "Ai, you will think me mad if I told you, but this I do know: She has come to kill you, Lalaith!"

At that moment, the crunch of several boots upon earth found their ears as well as voices as five figures came into view, striding up one of the twining paths that led from the meadow below. Erestor Haldir and Elrohir held naked blades within their hands. Calassë walked slightly ahead of them with Pippin beside her, a small blade in his hand as well.

"The danger is but one mortal woman," Erestor was murmuring. "Why must we send out sundry patrols armed as we are to seek her? How deadly can she be?"

"My lady knows this threat greater than any other could. And I trust Gandalf's judgment," Elrohir returned.

Erestor sighed at this, and nodded. "As do I trust the judgment of them both," he returned, though his eyes held a hint of confusion in them, yet.

"Lalaith!" Calassë's voice echoed out, as she noted the group of Elves in the glade beside the fountain. Pippin looked up as well and brightened as they increased their pace.

"Oi, Lalaith!" Pippin huffed in relief. "We're glad to find you! We've got some bad news-,"

Pippin's smile faded at the bruise upon Lothirien's cheek, which Haldir had already noted, and was trotting forward, a look of concern upon his face, to join his wife.

Lothirien, a weary longing aspect upon her face, turned toward him, and opened her arms as he came near, falling in a weary heap against her husband's chest as Haldir gathered her against himself.

"What happened?" he breathed, lifting a hand that hovered over the bruise upon her cheek. "Who did this to you?"

"Greta!" Legolas seethed, disgust heavy in his voice, and a heavy, dark weight of sudden understanding drove like a ragged shard through Lalaith at the word.

"You know of her, Prince Legolas?" Erestor questioned, surprised.

"We both do, my lord, Erestor," Lalaith answered. She could hear the quaver in her voice. "She was once a woman of Rohan, taken into Saruman's service."

"We have both done battle with her, in one form or another," Legolas added, his eyes downcast for a moment.

"And each time, she was defeated," Lalaith added, to which Legolas glanced up, and cast his wife a soft grin.

"I found her in the cottage Lalaith and her lord have dwelt in, this past week." Lothirien glanced back toward Lalaith, her eyes almost apologetic even as she huddled like a child seeking comfort against Haldir's chest. "She has a knife, Lalaith, one of your own, it seems, and after deflecting the first of her blows, I fled from her, rather than choosing to fight. I-,"

"And you did as you should have," Haldir insisted, catching his wife by her shoulders, and studying her eyes with a sharp gaze, though there was tenderness in it, also. "For Halmir's sake, it was right to flee."

"But where shall she go now in this fair realm? What harm shall she do?" Lothirien queried.

"Ada!" a bright sound, cut through the heavy air about them, light and free of care like the cheerful call of a bird from the crest of the steps that bordered one side of the clearing, and all eyes glanced up at the merry smile of Wilwarin, Erestor's daughter, where she stood perched at the crest of the steps.

"Have you found the wicked wolf yet, Ada?" Wilwarin called down cheerily as she began to hop with both feet down from one step to another, her smile brightening at the sight of Pippin beside Calassë where they stood nearest her.

"Peregrin the Pherian!" she called with a wave. "We are well met! Do something silly! I like the funny faces you make, when I talk!"

Pippin returned her greeting with a mute wave of his free hand, but his face bore a worried look.

"Wilwarin," Erestor scolded gently. "You were told to stay in the house with your mother until the danger is past."

"Yes! I remember. Nana sang me to sleep in my bed, but then I awoke again when she shut the door, so I climbed out through the lattice! Nana thinks I am still abed!" Wilwarin chirped as she continued to hop down as her father pursed his lips and shook his head. "And I am yet in someone's house! I am in Lord Elrond's house, for I have not left the steps-," She glanced with a smile toward the Hobbit as she hopped down toward the last step before the flagstones began.

"See me, Peregrin?" she said as she hopped backward up to the step behind her, then hopped back down again, repeating the motion as she hopped back and forth. "See what I can do?"

Lalaith smirked at the child's antics in spite of the heaviness within her heart. She turned her eyes toward the Hobbit then, his face written with a worried smile, and as she did, her eyes caught a fleeting movement flitting through the thick trees that bordered the stones near the base of the steps.

A soft warning cry had not even broken through her lips before the shadowed figure, with the form of a woman, yet with fearfully unnatural strength, darted from the trees beside the steps, pounced over the low stone railing, and seized the Elfling up beneath her arms before Wilwarin could utter a strangled cry of fright.

"Stand away from my child!" wailed Erestor in a sudden panic, and with his sword in his grip, darted forward as Wilwarin fought the hold the creature held about her in vain.

"Wilwarin!" shouted Pippin, and started to dart forward, before the knife in Greta's hand came to rest against the struggling child's throat, freezing Pippin and Wilwarin's father where they stood.

"No!" Erestor wailed. "My daughter! Let her go!"

"If you come nearer," Greta gasped, her voice thick and heavy, like a wolf's low growl, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction, "the child will die."

"Let her go, Greta!" Lalaith cried, striding a step forward.

But this only elicited a cry from Wilwarin's lips as the blade pressed more firmly against the frightened child's throat.

"Stay back, you filthy trollop!" Greta barked, sudden fury in her voice, and as she did, her countenance changed, as a candle snuffed out, the gold of her hair flickered to the dark tones Lalaith remembered, her face again as Lalaith remembered, fair and sharply drawn, her ears rounded, marking her race.

At the fear and the unsurity that came suddenly upon Lalaith's face, Greta drew in a long, slow breath, and smiled again.

"Now I am the one with the blade," she murmured, her voice soft, as if she were speaking a happy thought to none but herself.

"Ada!" Wilwarin sobbed pathetically, her arms outstretched toward her father, though Erestor, tears streaming unashamedly down his face, glanced at Greta's sneering face, and dared not to move.

"Peregrin!" Wilwarin pleaded to the Hobbit where Pippin stood, his blade trembling in his hand. "Peregrin, save me!"

"Peregrin?" Greta seethed poisonously, glancing toward Pippin where he stood. "Is that your name, my brave little Hobbit? Glad I am to know it, at last, for I remember you well." She laughed softly at the look of bridled anger upon Pippin's face. "But this is different than when we met upon the steps of Orthanc is it not? Now, I am the one with the power, and not your Elven masters." She glanced over the Elves, before her taut, like drawn bows, though fearful to move, for Wilwarin's sake. She smiled, a cold, humorless smile.

"Cast your weapons away from you," she demanded, nodding toward the men whose weapons hung heavily in their hands. "Far away, if you wish the child to live. You as well, dear Peregrin," she murmured to the Hobbit, her voice mockingly soothing.

"This is my fault," Lothirien murmured in the heavy quiet, for even the merry clatter of the fountain had grown muted. "If I had not-,"

"Shh," Haldir murmured, pressing a soothing kiss to her head, even as he cast a hard glare at Greta, and cast his blade away into the shadows of the trees with the others.

"Ithilwen," Glorfindel murmured to his betrothed, his eyes boring holes into Greta's face as his empty fists opened and closed, "go to Lord Elrond, and tell Master Gandalf of-,"

"No!" Greta barked as Ithilwen began to turn away, and the maiden froze and turned back, glancing toward Glorfindel with a hopeless look. "If any of you leave, she will die."

"You wretch," Elrohir ground out as Erestor's sobs only increased. "Let the child go, and I swear to you, you will be released from this realm, unharmed. What do you think you can gain from this?"

Greta cast Legolas a twisted grin, and Lalaith swallowed stiffly as Greta's countenance changed again, her hair glittering suddenly as if taken afire by a golden flame as it grew suddenly yellow, her face becoming the image that Lalaith knew in the mirror.

"Legolas," she murmured tritely, now in a voice that sounded as Lalaith's, her tone sweet, her Elvish words slipping from her tongue like sweet honey. She glanced toward Lalaith's husband where he stood with a look of bridled fury upon his face. His chest rose and fell swiftly. "You will come away with me, won't you?"

A sound of ragged disgust broke past Legolas' lips.

"Oh," Greta sighed softly, lowering her eyes briefly. "I had thought you might agree if-,"

Wilwarin stiffened suddenly, and a soft cry broke past her lips. "Ada," she gasped.

"By the mercy of the Valar, let my daughter go!" Erestor shrieked. He moved to fly forward, but Greta drew in a swift warning breath, and pressed the knife more firmly against the child's tender flesh and he staggered wildly, like a drunken man, to a halt.

"Ah, yes," Greta sighed absently as if the little girl's cry had brought her back from mundane thoughts. "Your ada, my little one. Is it not a blessing that he can be here, to watch you die?"

Legolas shot a glance toward Lalaith. The air had become entirely still. the distant song of birds was gone, and even the fountain's clattered had grown muted, intensifying the silent, motionless battle that raged here. A small whimper from Pippin's lips seemed intensified in the heavy quiet. Lalaith traded a long glance with her husband, both their eyes speaking of the hopeless they felt. Legolas, his jaw taut in anger, turned his eyes again to Greta.

"If you hurt this child," he seethed softly, his voice low and dangerous, "woman that you are, I swear I will kill you with my bare hands!"

Greta trembled at these words, her face looking as if she would cry before she steeled her face, and smiled gently. "I shall let her go freely, of course, my beloved," she purred. "If you come away with me, and be mine."

"You are mad, Greta," he growled.

Greta offered a tittering laugh at this as if he had offered her a flattering complement.

"Greta," Lalaith began softly, drawing forward a few steps before a harsh sneer from Greta, and a soft sob from Lothirien stopped her in her place.

"I said stay back, you selfish thief!" Greta shouted, her eyes shooting sparks of wild hatred toward Lalaith, her voice half a sob. "Do not speak again, if you wish this brat to live!"

Lalaith stayed where she was, though her entire body trembled in helplessness at the rage in Greta's face, and the fear upon Lothirien's, the tears that wet her fair cheeks.

"Greta, daughter of Gálmód, please," a new voice spoke out amid the heavy quiet, and Calassë stepped forward, side stepping Elrohir's extended hand to draw her back, ignoring the sudden, pleading fear in the eyes of her betrothed, and also of her brother's. Calassë's own eyes were wide with fear, but she drew slowly nearer to Greta, and Lalaith could see the vague recognition dawn upon Greta's gaze, the unspoken questions, until the mortal's cold eyes narrowed, and at a soft gasp from Lothirien, Calassë stiffened, and stopped, near to where Pippin stood.

"Let her go," Calassë pleaded softly, her hands outstretched in an imploring gesture. "Will you not heed my lord? You will be released from Imladris unharmed if you do not hurt the child."

Greta's countenance trembled a little at this as her eyes trailed over Calassë's features.

"Who are you?" she demanded roughly, though Lalaith could hear a new tremor in her voice.

"She is Calassë of Gondolin, a daughter of The House of the Golden Flower," Elrohir offered from behind, his voice firm and angry. Elrond's son moved as if he meant to march forward to stand at Calassë's side, but his footsteps were arrested by another soft cry from Wilwarin dangling in Greta's arm as the knife her other hand twisted slightly.

"Your name is Calassë?" Greta snarled, her eyes fixed now upon the Elf maiden. "I do not know you. How do you know me? How-,"

Greta's eyes narrowed, and a strange look came over her face, almost a look of worried concern it seemed.

"Where is my brother?" she demanded, her voice almost a stammer. "Have you seen my brother, Gríma?"

"He is dead, Greta," Legolas offered, his voice lowered, though still guarded, watching her with careful eyes. "Both he and Saruman."

An unreadable look crossed her face at this, a look that Lalaith almost interpreted as sorrow before an angry expression banished it.

"Good!" she wailed. "I knew his foolishness would slay him in the end!"

"Let little Wilwarin go, please," Ithilwen pleaded softly, clinging to Glorfindel's side.

"No!" Greta cried out, like an angered child as Wilwarin stiffened further and drew in a sharp breath of pain as a small bead of blood appeared at the point where the knife touched, and snaked down her fair little neck. "Only if Legolas agrees to depart with me!"

"He does not love you!" Calassë cried in return.

"But I love him!" Greta wailed in return, her eyes studying Legolas with a wild, pleading expression where he stood in mute, helpless anger.

"No, you do not!" Calassë shot back, pleading in her ragged voice. "You do not love him any more than you loved Prince Théodred, or any of the other men who have come to your bed. You were glad to hear of Théodred's death, and laughed of it, in memory! Were you to cost Prince Legolas his life, you would not grieve. You know not how to grieve but for your own pain."

Greta gulped, her mouth ajar. Her eyes flashed from Calassë to Gandalf and back again. "How do you know-,"

Greta froze, and understanding, cold and furious entered her eyes.

"Ha!" she scoffed, laughing bitterly. "Worthless dirt! You are Burza the orc!"

"So you called me once," Calassë murmured softly with a nod. "But Calassë has ever been my true name."

"Foolish wench! You've turned yourself into an Elf, and found yourself a pretty toy! Yet you dare to tell me to leave what I wish for?" Greta growled, gesturing toward Elrohir who stood back, helpless with the others. "If you have gained such a prize, why can I not have all that you do?"

"My lord and I are joined by love," Calassë murmured pleadingly, her voice aching for Greta to understand. "But how can you understand such a thing, Greta? You cannot love another, for you do not love yourself! Please try to understand. We will let you go unharmed if you let little Wilwarin go, unhurt."

"I love Legolas," Greta ground out, her words a harsh, pathetic whimper, though the grip she held upon Lalaith's knife did not loosen.

"No, you do not," Calassë returned, her voice achingly gentle. "If you understood what love is, you would not demand him, when he wishes to be with another, and she with him. You would not threaten a child, who has done no evil to you. You would let him go, that he might be happy with his chosen one, and allow your own heart freedom to heal."

Greta's eyes seemed to soften for a moment at this as within her, her heart seemed to be struggling with Calassë's words. But it lingered for only a moment before her gaze hardened again. And a swell of despair rose in Lalaith's heart. She would not let Wilwarin go. She would not.

Beside her, her husband Legolas stood with a bent head, his chest rising and falling with ragged emotion. What am I to do? his thoughts pleaded despairingly as he glanced up, meeting her eyes. _Should I let the child die to save my honor? Should I agree to her demands to save the little one?_

_Trust the Valar_-, Lalaith returned, knowing her words sounded weak and helpless, though there was little else that could she could answer with.

Erestor, weeping openly now, had sagged helplessly to his knees even as Pippin in tearful voice, softly choked in softened Elvish tones, "Wilwarin! Wilwarin, mellon nin!"

Something seemed to awaken within Wilwarin then at his words.

"Pippin, mellon nin!" she gasped as a light lit her eyes, a sudden determination mingled with desperate hope. And with a spurt of sudden energy, she cocked her small arm and swung it back, catching Greta suddenly in the ribs with the sharp point of her little elbow.

Greta gasped at this in sudden pain and surprise before Wilwarin wriggled desperately out of the mortal's momentarily weakened grip, and ran, flying toward her father, screaming for him.

Greta, with a muffled grunt of pain, lunged after her small fleeing prey with murder in her eyes, her knife ready to slice down into the fleeing child's back.

The numb helplessness that had weighed upon her for the last few moments, was suddenly gone as a shard of fierce, protective rage tore through Lalaith's body, and she leapt forward despairing, noting vaguely that the glade had erupted in a flurry of noise and motion.

But Pippin, nearest the mortal woman, reached her first, and snatched desperately onto Greta's hand which held the knife, wrenching her to a stop as Wilwarin flew beyond her reach, leaping safe, into Erestor's arms. Deprived of her kill, Greta screamed in unearthly fury, and turned her rage upon the Hobbit clasped upon her arm, her free fist striking Pippin in the face with such demonical power that the Hobbit crumpled like a lifeless doll before she lifted the blade she held to slay the helpless Hobbit. But Calassë, even with a gasp of fear upon her lips, was upon Greta, throwing herself into the mortal woman, and pushing Greta back away from Pippin.

And then-, in a splintered fragment of time that seemed to last an age-, Calassë's fair face twisted into a look of pain and surprise as Greta stabbed the Elven forged blade through the cloth over Calassë's narrow stomach, piercing halfway to the hilt.

Greta wrenched the blade cruelly out, as Elrohir's voice, mingled with Glorfindel's shredded the air in a shout of rage and despair. She reached down with her free hand, and with strength to rival an uruk's, wrenched Pippin's small, unconscious form over her slender shoulder, then with a look of wild victory leapt with unearthly strength away from her foes closing about her, turned and sprinted away and up the trail that led toward the mountain.

"Calassë!" Elrohir cried, entirely forgetful of Greta's flight as his betrothed staggered into his arms, her hands clasping over a wound that suddenly gushed crimson blood through her slender, white fingers.

"Calassë!" Lalaith gasped, reaching her, her hands outstretched toward her friend as everyone gathered breathlessly about the wounded maiden. Lalaith wanted to gather her into her arms, to weep inconsolable tears over her, but staggered back quickly instead, making way for Glorfindel to catch up her limp hand, his eyes wide and wild as the maiden's weight sagging in the arms of her betrothed as Elrohir fell sagging to the stone steps cradling her, his face written with wild, unbelieving grief. Ithilwen, choking back fierce tears of disbelief, dropped to Glorfindel's side, stroking Calassë's hair, and speaking soothing words to the maiden through her sobs. Lalaith was vaguely aware of Legolas at her side, his hand upon her shoulder. And Haldir cradled Lothirien behind them. She was weeping inconsolably, quietly blaming herself for all that had befallen, and Wilwarin was sobbing in her father's arms, Erestor crumpled weakly against the side of the fountain, clutching his little daughter against himself.

Lalaith's heart was torn raggedly, so desperately she wanted to stay. To do her part in comforting Calassë, to will her to live in spite of her wound, yet-,

"Stay with me! Stay!" Elrohir's pleading sliced through her thoughts, his voice a dejected, agonized plea. "Do you remember the orcs in Lothlórien? This is no different. We defeated them! You healed. You will heal now, as you did then. You will-,"

"Elrohir-," Calassë murmured.

"Calassë?" he choked wildly.

"Pippin-," she answered in return to this. "Save-,"

The name of Lalaith's sweet, fearless little friend ricocheted with sudden clarity in her mind like a wasp wakened suddenly in a wild fury, and she knew now what she must do.

And though her heart wrenched to turn away from Calassë, tearing as never it had been before, strength surged in her legs, and Lalaith with a fierce breath of sudden determination, sprinted up the trail in the direction Greta had fled, and naught but a pace behind her, came Legolas.

...

Greta cursed the weight of the small Hobbit upon her shoulder as she ran along, trees flying by her at a speed that astounded her. Never had she borne such power as this. It was as if she were one of Saruman's uruks.

A cold smile touched her lips at this thought. But then Saruman's power, that small portion that he had given her, and had ever kept a jealous rein upon, was fully hers now. Saruman's spirit had faded and failed. He was no longer her master.

She laughed aloud at this, and the Hobbit stirred up her shoulder.

She cursed him, and jostled him roughly. His nose was dripping blood from where she had struck him, and it fell in a steady drip onto her shoulder.

By all the dead, she hated this little wretch! She'd taken him for but one purpose, and when it was fulfilled, she would no longer have need of him.

The trees broke, and the stairs that led up to the high cottage came into her view. But she did not wish to take them. There was but one way up, and one way back from that wretched little hut, and she wished to be gone when her purpose was fulfilled, and never return to this accursed valley again. The high cold mountains would shelter her well enough, she decided as she turned upon a ragged ledge of stone that rose along the steep side of the mountain, a ledge wide enough to serve as a narrow pathway that led up between a steep canyon where a high foaming fall plunged down, disappearing into the thick green trees in the canyon's narrow base. Away and up the uneven ledge stretched along the side of the white stoned cliffs rising gradually climbing until it topped the ragged peaks.

This was her way of escape. She would find caverns and crevices, hidden secret caves-, And she would find servants again Greta promised herself. Remnants of Sauron's minions who had hidden away in the shadowed, deep caverns of the MistyMountains, leaderless and defeated. She would find them, and command them, and then she would wield the power that Saruman had once possessed, and then so foolishly lost. Just as she had always dreamed she would, one day. And then she would return, and crush this cursed valley beneath the heel of her power.

Chortling under her breath, she hitched the Hobbit upon her shoulder, tightened her fist about the haft of the knife she held, and trotted from the trees toward the rising mountain. Free of the shading trees, the winds, smelling sweet with the faint mist of the falls about the valley, and faintly like the soft scent of simbelmynë, washed about her, catching at her blood stained dress, and her snarled hair as she started in a slow climb up the ledge that rose away from the forest floor, pausing when she had climbed several paces, then turned and waited.

A gleeful smirk peeled her lips upward as she saw two Elves, only two, but the very ones she hoped would come, Legolas and Lalaith, darting through the trees, and pausing suddenly side by side, breathless, when their eyes found her.

A snort found its way out her nose. Though Legolas bore a sword, the long blade the dark haired Elf man had dropped when she had stabbed the foolish golden haired maiden, Lalaith had not even thought to bring a weapon! How easily that selfish thief would die!

"Greta!" Legolas cried out, his face fearful and unsure. His voice was a ragged plea, and Greta smiled. How it pleased her to see him helpless to watch him beg! "Let the Halfling go! He is of no use to you! Be gone, to wherever you will, but do no harm to him!"

"Do you want him, Legolas?" Greta queried sweetly. "Then you must take him from me!"

With that, she turned and fled up the ever rising cliff wall, and smiled as she heard the sound of pursuit behind her. As she rose higher, she slowed slightly, the valley falling away below and behind her. The ledge curved along the cliff wall, often narrow, often wider, and as it darted around a corner of jutting stone, Greta glanced back. Legolas ran before Lalaith, the sword in his hand, his back half bent with effort as he raced up the ledge, oblivious to the steep drop that fell swiftly away beside him in his fixed resolve to reach the mortal woman and her captive.

Her heart trembled at the determination on his face, the grip of the elven sword in his fist. Would he truly slay her as he appeared intent to do? The fair, flawless Elf who had not left her deepest thoughts from the moment she saw him from the veranda of the Golden Hall, all those months ago?

Fury boiled in her heart at the thought. Turning about, and setting her jaw hard, she sprinted on up the ledge, higher and higher it climbed, nearer to the roaring waterfall that cascaded near. Here and there, scattered in the small trees clinging to the cliffside above her and below her, and here and there upon the ledge, scattered over the stones, and the brush that grew here, she saw shreds of cloth, and bits of shattered wood. She glanced up for a fleeting moment, seeing above her, the jutting balcony where she had flung Lalaith's trunk, no more than an hour before. She laughed to herself, imagining the look of dismay upon Lalaith's face behind her, to find her things scattered thusly, and on Greta ran. The air was moist and filled with mist, and the rocks were growing slick, but still, she ran on. On, until her lungs burned, and her legs wobbled beneath her, and she could hear the clatter of stones as Legolas slowly, steadily, gained.

Then at last, with a snarl of rage, she turned about to face him, a look of furious victory upon her face as she wrenched the lifeless Hobbit from her shoulder, and clutched him as she had the Elf child, her knife pressing against the soft, though steady pulse in his throat as his head, his nose dripping blood, lolled against her shoulder.

Legolas slid to a halt, his chest heaving in a way that sent the blood pulsing hard through Greta's veins as pebbles scattered from his sudden stop clattered away, dropping over the side of the ledge, and spinning downward, glancing off the white stone that sloped steeply toward the valley below and disappearing at last into the foam of the white falls that thundered near, cascading down into a deep blue pool edged by a curve of sandy white beach surrounded by trees.

"Legolas, we are well met," she gasped. How fair he was. How perfect. And how desperately she wanted him. Even now. Yet he had never done as she wished him to. He had never even kissed her, not even the briefest brush of his soft, perfect lips against her own. But neither had Théodred ever kissed her, and he was dead, cut down those months ago by Saruman's uruks. As dead as Ceorl, and so many others of the men of Edoras who had fallen victim to her.

How many of them had died at Helm's Deep or before the gates of that distant WhiteCity the Ent had spoken of? Greta wondered this fragmented thought as the little Hobbit dangled lifelessly in her straining arm. Doubtless many of them, though they mattered little now to her. Indeed, she was well named the little spider, as that wretched wizard Gandalf had called her. And now, even her brother, and Saruman were dead.

"Greta," Legolas gasped, and at her name upon his lips, her heart leaped, and she smiled. "Give him back."

"Will you come away with me?" she called out, her voice a high plea, that she might be heard above roar of the falls nearby.

Legolas set his jaw at this. "Daughter of Gálmód," he grated through his teeth, "you care nothing for me! You care nothing for anyone! Indeed, you have perhaps slain a noble lady, much beloved of her lord, and of her friends! I will not do as you bid me!"

Deep within Greta, within a hidden corner of her heart, something twinged, something that she had not felt for years, and a tear touched the corner of her eye.

"I want to be loved, Legolas!" She wailed, her voice wrenching from the shadowed core of her very soul.

To this, the Elf's eyes softened briefly, though his guarded look did not change, nor did the grip upon his sword loosen. "As do I, Greta," he called out. "And Lalaith loves me, fully, truly. And I her. I am more than-," he swallowed hard. "More than brief pleasure to her. She will not use me up, and then cast me aside. She is all that I desire, and I wish to be with no one else. I beg you, give the Halfling back-,"

Her swift motion stopped his words in his throat as she wrenched the Hobbit by the front of his bloodsoaked, homespun shirt, and thrust her arm out, dangling him lifelessly over the ravine below.

"It is too late, sweet prince," she seethed, and with that, she let the Hobbit's weight go, The blood streaked cloth slithered through her loosened fingers, and he fell away, plummeting downward.

Greta smiled in detached amusement as Legolas, his eyes wide with a sudden wild fear, uttered a strangled cry, and dove over the rim of the ledge.

"Legolas!" a voice cried from behind him, as Lalaith, her long skirts torn and snagged from her swift flight up the mountain, skidded to a stop as she watched her husband hurtle over the ledge, her countenance, fraught with wild terror before the fear upon Lalaith's face melted into a look of tentative relief.

Greta frowned. Following the Elf woman's gaze, she edged near the rim, and peered downward, her jaw growing taut and hard at the sight of Legolas some length down the ragged stone wall, clinging by one hand to a jutting stone that protruded from the cliff, his feet struggling to find purchase in the white stone of the cliff. Greta's lips curled in a snarl over her crushed teeth, her anger made double by the form of the Hobbit that hung limply from Legolas' other hand.

The Elf, at least was weaponless, she noted, for she could see a brief glimmer of his sword far below tumbling through space before it disappeared into the mist of the falls.

Cursing aloud, she snatched up a loose stone the size of her fist that lay against the cliff wall, and lifted it above her head, to fling it down upon Legolas.

"No, Greta!" a voice cried beside her, and Greta turned just as Lalaith's form hurtled into her, knocking her off balance, and grappling for the rock that Greta had meant to knock the Elf man and the Hobbit from the cliff, with. The Elf woman, entirely forgetful of the knife in Greta's hand in her anxiety for her lover's safety, had left her side exposed, and with a cry of enraged delight, Greta stabbed the blade out, feeling the blade punch through soft flesh. And with a harsh gasp, Lalaith released Greta and staggered back. Greta tumbled upon her knees, gasping, the stone still in one hand and the knife in her other, though wet again, with new blood.

Lalaith staggered away from Greta and fell back against the cliffwall crumpling against it among small huddle of leafy brush where a shallow bay curving into the side of the cliff widened the ledge slightly. A deep crimson stain was swiftly spreading across the soft cream of her gown just beneath her ribs, crimson wetness oozing between her fingers clenched over the wound.

Lalaith's gaze, fair and bright though glazed with pain, met Greta's as the mortal grinned and rose to her feet, smiling as the Elf woman shuddered in pain from the ragged wound. Lalaith too, struggled to rise, but fell back as a sharp hiss of agony broke past her lips.

"Lalaith!" Legolas' voice cried from beneath the ledge. Greta glanced over her shoulder. She could hear from labored tone of his words, that Legolas was climbing up, as swiftly as he might, though the weight of the limp Hobbit and the lack of hand and footholds hampered him. Were he a mere mortal man, he would surely have fallen, already. He may yet, Greta mused to herself. She smiled.

Greta turned back toward the helpless Elf woman, a smile peeling across her face. "Ah, now I am the one with the blade, and you are not," she mused softly, then laughed, a harsh, sharp laugh, and moved to stand over her helpless prey. "That walking tree bragged so of you. A daughter of gods, it said you were, and one of the greatest warriors in the battle against Sauron." Greta laughed sharply. "You do not look so mighty now, that I am soon to slay you!"

She sneered darkly and added, "And once you are dead, I shall slay your lover as well, and the Hobbit, Peregrin, if they have not yet fallen from the cliff."

Lalaith shuddered, and struggled to back away from Greta and the knife glinting in her hand. It was her own blade, Lalaith noted almost absently. She pushed herself against the cool rough stone of the cliff, her eyes seeking escape, though there was nowhere to go. Her right side beneath her ribs was filled with cruel fire that bit sharply at her with every small movement, blood ever oozing from the piercing wound. Perhaps her fate was already set, Lalaith wondered wearily.

She could hear Legolas crying out her name as from far away, but her voice was too weary and choked to answer him.

With her trembling left hand, she struggled to push herself away, to melt into the stone at her back which she caught to, and clung furtively against.

_Mother_-, she cried in her mind, reaching out pleadingly, plaintively to the west, seeking comfort, seeking guidance. But no calm, soothing voice answered her call. She was alone. So alone. She would die alone.

And her left hand slid down the rock face falling limp within the soft leaves of the brush beside her, coming to rest upon-,

Lalaith stiffened slightly at the unexpected touch of soft leather beneath her hand. One of her boots-,

She had seen shreds of cloth, torn remnants of clothing scattered here and there as she'd darted up the mountainside, yet in her anxiety she had not paid heed. Yet here was one of her own boots, the very ones she had worn so long upon her quest. Perhaps-,

Greta laughed, tossed the rock in her hand aside with a clatter, reached down, and seized Lalaith by the neck of her gown. With one hand she wrenched Lalaith up as with the other, she raised the knife above her head, her fair face twisted in orcish glee. And as she did, Lalaith's hand slid trembling along the length of the boot, found the mouth, and plunged inside, pleading, hoping silently as the blade descended in a silver blur.

With the last of her strength, Lalaith pitched to the side, hearing the jarring scream of the blade as the knife wildly struck rock where her head had been even as her hand shot out of the boot and shoved fiercely up into the center of Greta's chest.

And then, for a moment that lasted the length of an age, all the world stood still.

...

...

Greta staggered suddenly back from the wall, confused at the strange sensation that spread outward from the middle of her chest as she gazed down upon the wounded Elf woman, wondering why the wretch was not yet dead. The knife Greta had clutched with such determined strength moments before fell from her trembling fingers to the ragged stone at her feet, for her fingers she could no longer feel.

Lalaith pushed herself up upon one hand, watching her as Greta staggered back another step, confused that she should feel suddenly so cold, and numb. And gradually, her eyes lowered, and fixed upon the small gilded hilt of the Elven forged knife that lay embedded in the cloth of her gown between her breasts.

"Oh," the word, soft and weak, broke past her lips.

Greta's eyes lifted again to meet the gaze of the woman who possessed everything she had ever wanted, but had never quite grasped her fingers upon. Happiness, friendship, the unwavering devotion of a man. Saruman had made promises of all these things. He had promised her Théodred, he had promised her wealth and treasure beyond her imaginings. But none of those things had she ever received. Men she had had, aplenty, but the pleasure she had gotten from them was fleeting, for they had swiftly bored her. She possessed nothing lasting, nothing of true worth as this woman did. Greta's stare into Lalaith's eyes deepened, and her thoughts took a strange turn as she staggered back yet another step. Could she have possessed true happiness, she wondered, if Théodred had indeed given in to her as she had wanted, or if the fair Elf Legolas had? In the last furtive beats of her heart, Greta faced the truth, and understood it for all its stark bleakness. They would have become like the others, as naught but cast off toys she had grown bored with when she had finished with them, for she truly loved nothing and no one, seeing beauty only for the momentary pleasure it could bring her, wanting something only until she received it.

Her heart staggered raggedly upon a beat. She felt it quaver within her. And then a cold stillness spread through the hollowness of her being. Darkness shrouded her vision, and the world fell away, plunging her into a wild, ceaseless roaring.

A quiet numbing sadness washed over her as Lalaith watched Greta's eyes cloud in sightless death even as her stiffened body tipped over the ledge, and fell, tumbling downward like a limp shred of torn, dark flag, fading into the silver mist of the ever roaring falls.

"Legolas," she whispered furtively to herself, and ignoring the sharp pain lashing her, she struggled to her knees and crept toward the rim of the ledge, where she fell again upon her side, the urge to wince at her wrenching pain fading beneath a trembling smile as Legolas' face appeared above the ledge, hoisting his small unconscious charge to the safety of the ledge, and rolling Pippin's form safely away from the rim.

Sweet Pippin-, Lalaith reached out and touched a hand to the Hobbit's pale, still face. Was he even yet breathing?

"Lalaith!" Legolas gasped, as he scrambled to the ledge now himself, and caught Lalaith in his arms, lifting her from the hard points of stones into his lap, his eyes filled with disbelief and fear.

"Lalaith, stay with me," he commanded gently as she melted wearily against him, her heavy head lolling against his shoulder.

"Stay," he repeated softly, pressing his hand against the bleeding and bent over her, his warmth seeping into her as he pressed soft kisses against her face.

"Greta will not hurt you now, Legolas," she returned, nuzzling her face weakly against his shoulder, and drinking in the warm, alluring scent of her beloved.

"Yes, I saw-," he breathed softly. "Yes, she is gone."

"Calassë and Pippin-,"

"Hush, Lalaith nin," he breathed, his lips brushing her cheek. "All will be well." She glanced up at him. His voice was broken and sorrowful, his eyes above her own, so blue and beautiful-, though wet with tears.

"I am so weary, my love," she breathed softly as she lifted her hand, so heavy it felt to raise, though she wished so desperately to touch his face-,

It fell back to the stone beside her, the effort too great, yet he caught it, and lifted it up, pressing his lips furtively to her palm, and she sighed at the warmth of his supple flesh.

"I love you, Lalaith nin!" Legolas' voice breathed even as a sob wrenched from him as she closed her eyes and sank into a void of darkness.


	62. Chapter 60

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 60

October 26, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Lalaith's first budding awareness, was of a cool, sweetly scented wind upon her face, the smooth touch of wrought silver beneath her hands, and then as if she were only drawing open her eyelids, a grand vista opened to her view, and she found herself standing upon a high balcony set atop a great mountain, the white slopes of which fell far and below her, down to where the gleaming white faded to the warm greys and browns of a mountain slope as the steep sides of the mountain eased into low rolling foothills of green and yellow before a strip of distant white sand met a vast, blue sea where the golden orb of the sun was only now rising in a glorious display into the sky.

Her eyes were fixedly drawn to the eastern horizon as if she had long been standing thusly, the wind in her hair, and catching in the soft white robes that enshrouded her slender form.

Lalaith drew in a long, slow breath, letting the cool wind fill her lungs as she gathered her bearings. There was no pain in her side, yet neither were the warm, secure arms of her husband about her.

Drawing away her hands from the silver balustrade at her fingertips, she hugged her arms to herself, and allowed herself a short, brief smile even as questions and subtle fears entered her heart. Had she not overcome her fear of heights during the War against Sauron, she thought to herself as she gazed down the vast slope below her, she would be cringing now, and sulking quickly away, seeking some sanctuary away from this marvelous view.

"_She smiles_," a woman's voice soft as a memory murmured from behind her. "_Yet it does not fully reach her eyes. Dare I ask her what she is thinking_?"

Lalaith's breath stopped momentarily. She knew that voice. Well did she know it. And slowly she turned, her movements light and airy, to meet the gentle eyes of the woman and the man who stood behind her, watching her with such tenderness in their bright eyes, that even were she to not recall the vision she had beheld so many months before in Galadriel's mirror, she would have known them.

"_Naneth_," Lalaith breathed, gazing with eyes wide like a child's upon the woman whose beauty shone from her face as the light of Ilúvatar himself. And the tresses of her hair glittered, as the light of the stars themselves even as a playful smirk danced upon the bright beauty of her face.

Her companion was no less her equal in masculine beauty, his lips drawing up in a smile as Lalaith turned her eyes upon him. Wise, yet eternally youthful was his face as Lalaith studied his dear, familiar features.

"_Adar_," Lalaith breathed, and at the word, Manwë's smile broadened, as did Varda's.

"_Lalaith Elerrina_," Manwë murmured, pronouncing each word with feeling, his tone warm and strong, and achingly tender.

"_Our child_," Varda breathed in the voice Lalaith had known so well in her thoughts. She stepped forward, her arms drawing open and suddenly Lalaith found herself hurrying forward, her own arms outstretched like an eager child, and then she was in her arms. Her mother's arms.

"_My sweet child_," Varda breathed against her hair, her slender arms clutching Lalaith close.

"_Though always we have watched thee from afar as thou hast grown, and listened to the brightness of thy laughter, it is a new and long awaited joy to have you again in our company_," Manwë offered, his tones deep and warm and rich as his hand touched against Lalaith's hair. And though her face was turned against her mother's neck, she could hear the gladness and indeed the joyful tears in her father's voice.

_"There were times when I almost envied her, when she held thee in her arms, when she stood beside thee as thou took thy first steps_-," Varda sighed, her eyes dancing as Lalaith at last drew back enough to look upon the soft beauty of the Star Kindler.

Lalaith furrowed her brow in quiet questioning, to which Varda smiled.

"_Celebrian the child of Artanis_," Varda added with a soft laugh of merriment when Lalaith said nothing. "_She who has been thy mother on earth, who raised thee to become a beautiful, and brave woman, though grief and wounds caused her to leave thee when thou wast still young. We have spoken on occasion of thee, she and I. And she is very proud of thee and of all thou hast achieved. Thy courage in adversity, thy victory over the servant of Morgoth, thy love of the son of the Firstborn and thy binding with him_."

"_Legolas_," Lalaith breathed softly glancing away, toward the east where the sun's tresses rested upon the water, and the horizon reached far and away-,

_"She has healed well, here, little one_," Varda murmured gently. "_Though she has missed her lord and the children born of her body. And thee, whom she has loved no less than them_."

"_Shall I see her now_?" Lalaith wondered, to which Varda and her lord again exchanged a look of bright merriment.

"_In thy own time, thou shalt see her_," offered Manwë warmly as he and his lady traded a smile.

"_Our Lord Namo, and Lady Vairë told us of thy sacrifice in the Halls of Mandos, for one of the sons of the Firstborn, that he might return to his beloved_," Varda murmured, drawing back enough to catch Lalaith's hands in hers, and press a soft kiss to her brow.

"_I-," _Lalaith murmured softly, searching her mother's eyes filled with such memory-, the very scent of her recalled faint memories to the fore of her mind, of gentle arms cradling her, the soothing softness of a soft, silver blanket about her.

_"I remember now_," she continued. "_I was there, for a time. Lord Namo spoke to me, as did Lady Vairë, and Haldir and_-," she gulped softly. "_And Boromir, my friend, the Man of Gondor-, he was there as well_-,"

Varda and her lord traded a brief smile.

"_Indeed_," Varda murmured softly, placing a hand against Lalaith's cheek. "_He died for thee, and has gained a reward unique to most other mortals. The mortal woman who gave her life for thee as well could have remained in the Halls of Mandos, but she wished to journey on to the Place of Awaiting beyond the stars with her lord. Yet young Boromir_-,"

Varda's words and smile faded as she gazed over Lalaith's somber face as she turned her eyes down and studied her hands. Whole they seemed to her, unfaulted, yet she felt unfinished. She was here in fëa only, once again.

"_What is it, my dear one_?" she breathed gently.

"_What is to become of me_?" Lalaith queried softly.

"_Ai, glad we are that thou art here with us, little one_," Manwë's warm, rich tones warmed Lalaith to the core of her being as his hand came to rest against her hair. "_So long we have been parted from thee, and would that thy mission were completed that thou couldst stay with us_-,"

Lalaith drew in a shuddering breath as the Lord of all Arda smiled gently upon her, her father, his form and raiment as the sun itself, even the gentle kindness in his countenance reminded her so of Elrond. It should be a blessing to her, to be at last returned now, here in the West to this high palace upon Oiolossë where her life began. Yet within her, her heart was incomplete, and even bathed in the glory of these might Valar, she felt lonely-,

"_But that is not thy wish_," he finished, his words a warm breath, and his eyes seeking her own. "_Is it_?"

Lalaith's heart caught in her throat, and she quickly glanced away.

"_We hear his prayers, little one_," Varda murmured reassuringly. "_Even the quiet pleadings of his heart are known to us. As are the prayers of your kindred, both of the First and Second born, and of the goodly son of Aulë, who has become thy friend. And we know the desires of thy heart_."

Lalaith released a deep breath. "_But not always are such pleadings answered as is wished_," she murmured softly.

"_Indeed_," Varda murmured with a sad smile. "_For always is the will of our All Father obeyed_."

Lalaith dropped her eyes. "_And I shall trust in His will_."

"_As shall we_," Manwë added with a warm, gentle laugh, to which Lalaith could not withhold a tentative smile. "_For we also, are subject to his dictates, and will follow them, and take comfort in the promise that thou art ever our daughter, wherever thou art_."

Lalaith's eyes lifted quickly at this, to which the countenances of Varda and her lord glowed with warmth and joy to see the sudden light in her eyes.

"_He who is thy father upon earth possesses great skills of healing_," Manwë murmured, joy glowing within his eyes. "_His skill is surpassed only by his love for thee, our daughter. And his daughter, also. When we see thee again, then shall be cause for even greater joy than this, for then thou shalt truly be complete, your fëa and hröa one, so that you might have the fullness of joy that comes with completeness of being, and your beloved also, will then be at your side_."

Lalaith smiled at this, and sweet hope rose suddenly in her heart.

"_And though thy soul hast as before, traveled upon the pathway between life and death, thou art once again, being drawn back across the sea_," Varda added, her hands squeezing Lalaith's softly.

"_Soon enough we shall see thee again, and he who for his love of thee, is now kinsman to us_!" Manwë added with a deep laugh that rolled over her in warm waves. "_And we will await that day with joy_."

"_Thou hast time yet with thy noble prince in the East_," Varda breathed softly. "_There is much good that you both shall yet render there before the last of the Firstborn have all departed. And there are children that shall come to thee and thy beloved, children who shall first draw breath in that marred, yet still beautiful land_."

"_Children_?" Lalaith wondered softly, drawing in a breath of joy before another thought smote at her heart.

"_But what of my friends_?" she demanded suddenly. "_Dear Calassë, and sweet Pippin of the Pheriannath? What of their fates_?"

Varda only smiled at this, her fingertips again brushing against Lalaith's cheek.

"_I love you, Lalaith Elerrina, my daughter_," Varda breathed softly.

"_As do I love you, my little one_," Manwë added, his tones warm and quavering.

"_Nana_?" Lalaith gasped out.

The scene about her was already fading in a white mist, even as she felt Varda's hand squeeze her own and withdraw, and voices, distant, seeming to echo in her ears from out of the distant east became clearer now.

"_Ada_?" she cried out as her mind grew warm and sleepy, and the feel of soft linens brushed against her skin even as a soft pang of discomfort pulsed in her side.

Lalaith felt a man's sturdy gentle hand brush gently against her face. She drew in a quick breath, the air warm with the scent of late spring flowers. She lay upon a soft bed, a pillow beneath her head, and linens tucked about her, the soft touch of a thin nightgown clad about her form. Soft whispering voices echoed about her, Arwen's and Miriel's voices, and the quiet pressure of gentle hands upon her side where the knife wound still pulsed and ached as if someone were changing a bandage with deft and gentle care. Lalaith's eyes were closed, but she could hear movement about her, and with her face turned to the side, she could feel warm sunlight upon her brow, the soft glow of it against her eyelids. And at her side, she felt a presence, and the soft pressure of a hand upon her own. Legolas' hand, she knew, for she could sense the quiet music of his soul whispering ever to her own. And slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes.

Golden morning light filtered through the twining lattice upon the window beyond the sleeping form of her beloved, seated in a chair even as he leaned against the headboard of the bed where she lay, his hand covering her own where it lay palm up upon her pillow. Legolas' eyes were half closed in weary sleep. His face even as he dreamed, was taut with worry.

Beyond Legolas' sleeping form, Aragorn and Elladan were slowly pacing, dark silhouettes in the morning light. Aragorn's arms were folded across his chest, his face written with quiet worry while Elladan's right hand, balled in a fist, was pressed into his left palm, his eyes filled with helpless anxiety. At the far end of the room, Queen Aseaiel sat in a carven chair, her elbow upon the chair's arm, while her hand covered her face.

Arwen, her forearms bare, sleeves rolled to her elbows, stood behind the Queen of Eryn Lasgalen, folding white linens upon a board against the wall. And Miriel, her sleeves rolled as Arwen's, was bending over the queen, a hand upon her shoulder as she questioned Aseaiel softly. Thranduil's queen glanced up at the maiden and smiled wearily, returning a soft answer, though Lalaith could not hear it.

Lalaith stirred slightly, And standing behind her, a presence moved.

"Lalaith-," a voice warm and familiar whispered near her hear, deep and soft, yet cracking with emotion as she gazed upward into Elrond's well loved face as he stood above her.

His face was written with lines of exhaustion, and as her eyes met his, his eyes grew wet with sudden tears.

"I had feared you would not return to us!" he choked softly, a hand touching her cheek. "Long you lay in shadow!"

"Ada," she breathed again, and at the soft word, all eyes in the room, turned upon her.

"Lalaith!" Legolas' hand tightened beside her as he started awake, and she turned her head, her eyes now finding his, meeting his beloved gaze as he dropped to his knees from the chair beside her bed so that he might embrace her as he threw his strong arm about her head, and wept quiet tears of relief into her shoulder.

The soft approach of feet echoed upon the stones of the floor as faces dear and familiar came into her view, filled with relief, and many quiet tears of gladness.

"Arwen, Miriel," Lalaith sighed, struggling to lift a hand to reach out to them, though she could not, for her limbs felt heavy.

"Lalaith," Elrond's gentle voice sounded at her shoulder, and his hand, so gently, brushed her brow.

"Here, drink this," he murmured, lifting her head gently as he pressed a cup to her lips.

"It will bring sleep," he offered while she sipped at the bitter warmth of the tea, "but it will bring healing as well."

Indeed, no sooner did the warmth of the tea he offered her slip down her throat, but a heavy drowsiness entered her mind, made all the more difficult to resist as he released her head, and let it sink down into the warm softness of the pillow.

"But Ada, Legolas," she breathed as fog clouded her mind, "What of Calassë and Pippin?"

But her healing dreams had already claimed her, and she did not hear their reply.

...

Lalaith's eyes fluttered and blinked, and slowly the light of the waking world seeped into them where she lay between the cool sheets of the bed where she had last faded into sleep.

But now the room was bathed in shadows, pearlescent spears of moonlight trailing in through the high arching windows beside the bed, soft night wind stirring the gossamer curtains that hung there. The pain in her side had faded to a barely perceptible ache, and Lalaith stirred slightly, turning to gaze into the sleeping countenance of her beloved who lay atop the sheets, upon the bed beside her as if he had been sitting at her side, and had succumbed at last, to sleep.

"Legolas," Lalaith cooed softly, reaching out and brushing her fingers against the warmth of his firm jaw. She hoped, though he slept, that he would awaken at her touch. But he merely sighed in his sleep, and smiled, easing nearer her, and tucking his head against her neck.

How long she had slept, she could not tell. Days? A week? The sleeping gown she had worn when she had first woken, had been changed, so surely it had been longer than a day. And how long before her earlier waking had first been wounded? A simple bandage now covered the wound upon her side, the pain nearly gone. So some time surely had past.

What had become of Calassë, and Pippin?

"Legolas?" she pleaded again. But though he smiled at the sound of her voice, his eyes, glazed in contented sleep, did not lightened with awareness.

Were he not so very weary, Lalaith knew, he would have awakened at her touch. Long had he remained awake then, she surmised, before he succumbed to sleep at her side. And with that, Lalaith sighed, and turned her cheek against her lover's soft hair, her eyes studying the fluted beams of the ceiling above her head, awaiting the coming of dawn, and of the answers she sought, that would come at last.


	63. Chapter 61

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Chapter 61

November 26, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

When Lalaith woke at last, it was to the soft sounds of morning, the merry song of birds upon the air, and the soft whisper of the unending waterfalls. The sun, already having climbed halfway up the sky, sent warm rays of golden light down through the window beside her, and she managed a small smile, and stirred slowly where she lay.

Legolas, she noted, with some disappointment, was no longer beside her. And Lalaith released a soft breath as she sat slowly up. Her side barely twinged at the movement, and encouraged by this, she drew herself fully up, and with a sigh, gazed about the room. The door beside her, leading out onto the portico beyond which, trees lush and thick with late spring leaves caught and danced in the warm morning sunlight. And beside her, set upon a bedside table, as if in the hope that she would awaken soon, was a dish of sliced apples, a thick slice of newly baked bread, steam still rising from the softness of it, with a thick pat of butter still melted down into the soft warmth of it. Upon a table at the end of the room, a gown of soft light blue had been lain out, awaiting her awakening.

Lalaith was terribly hungry, she realized as she slung her bare feet over the side of the bed, but rather than gathering the plate onto her lap, she rose, wavering for a moment to adjust herself, then scurried toward the table where the gown lay. Moving quickly, she drew off her night gown, and lay it haphazardly upon the table before swiftly casting on the light blue gown, soft against her skin before she turned toward the door, drew it open, and glided out onto the veranda.

The peaked roof of the Hall of Fire she could see before her, beyond a cluster of trees, green with leaves of late spring. Lalaith sighed, and set off down the portico. Doubtless, she would meet someone before she arrived at the Hall of Fire, and learn of the fates of her friends.

On she padded in her unshod feet, the cool of the gentle spring breeze that washed along the portico tangling playfully in her hair. But her own heart was weighted and worried as she strode along. Until at the last, around a small stand of young trees, down the steps off the portico where she trod, she saw someone. A small figure seated upon a stone bench in the garden below the high peeked roof of the Hall of Fire just beyond the arching footbridge that spanned the churning river as it poured toward the valley below. A book sat in his lap as he studied the pages, his tongue caught between his lips in an adorable expression of stern concentration as his furry feet swung a fraction above the ground.

"Sam!" Lalaith cried out scurrying across the bridge, and the little Hobbit lifted his head, startled at the sound of her voice, and his eyes went wide at the sight of her. He dropped the book he was holding to the stone seat as he leaped to his feet brushing his hands nervously upon his trousers as she dropped down a step into the garden, and started toward him.

"Lalaith!" he called out, and grinned as she scurried down the steps toward him, her eyes brightening all the more as the sound of padding feet of other small _Pheriain_ met her ears, hurrying near from down the twining garden path where trees blocked her sight.

Lalaith smiled warmly at the delighted aspect upon Merry's face as he drew near around the trunk of a tree, and noticed her. But her smile only grew fuller as three more Hobbits shuffled into view, Frodo, supporting Bilbo upon one side, while the aged Hobbit shuffled along with his cane in his other hand, and behind them, a fading purple bruise under one eye, came Pippin, grinning gleefully at the sight of her, though as Frodo and Bilbo came on, Pippin stopped still in the middle of the path, hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his breeches, and eyed Lalaith up and down, laughter in his eyes.

"It's good to see awake at last, Lalaith!" he exclaimed, chuckled as at some secret joke, "What finally got you up? Did someone put frogs in your bed again?"

"Pippin!" Lalaith gasped at the sight of him, tears springing suddenly to her eyes that half of her anxiety was so mercifully relieved. Scurrying forward, she dropped to her knees before the suddenly surprised Hobbit, and threw her arms around him, pulling his dear, sturdy warmth close against her.

"Pippin, I was so worried about you!" she gasped against his cheek as Pippin's own small, strong arms circled her comfortingly. "I have known nothing all this time-,"

"Lalaith," Pippin murmured, humor fled from his voice, though the gentle tones that ever were his, still lingered there. Lalaith drawing in a ragged breath, sat back upon her heels, and Pippin smiled gently upon her and reached out a hand, brushing the tears from her eyes. "I was alright. Just a little bruised."

"Just a little?" Sam scoffed merrily behind him, and Lalaith turned to glance smiling at Sam's incredulous countenance as Frodo and Merry looked on with delight in their eyes while Bilbo sighed with the look of a long suffering parent, and offered Lalaith a shrug.

"You should've seen the shiner he had, Lalaith!" Sam exclaimed, nodding toward Pippin. "Swollen big as an apple, it was, all purple and blue! Couldn't open that eye for days!"

Pippin mumbled something inaudible to this, and rolled his eyes as Lalaith turned back to him, and smiled.

"But now," Frodo grinned, his hands stuffed in his pockets as Lalaith's gaze met those of the small ring bearer, "now he's better."

Lalaith's smile fell then, as she drew in a breath. "And what-," she turned from Pippin and met Frodo's eyes, "What of Calassë?"

"Lalaith-,"

The voice above her brought her head up, and she lifted her face, her gaze alighting upon Elrohir where he stood upon the veranda, above the garden path. He had perhaps just come around the corner from the room she had only just left these past minutes. His eyes studied her with an unreadable look while in his hands he held a folded cloth. Silver and white it was, the light upon it shifting with every slight movement.

Lalaith's heart caught upon a beat as she rose to her feet. For she recognized the tiny star woven blanket that had come with her from her birthplace, that Treebeard had kept faithfully for her, and that had been washed away in the flooding of Isengard, then taken away by Greta, only to fall into Burza's hands, Calassë's. What-, why did Elrohir carry it now?

"This-," Elrohir's eyes dropped to the square of starry cloth in his hands as Lalaith caught up the hem of her gown and quickly moved toward her dear brother, her feet patting softly upon the steps as she ascended from the path of the garden to the veranda where he stood.

"This," he offered again, "is yours, Lalaith. Calassë said-,"

His voice caught softly, his eyes ever down upon the tiles at his feet, not meeting hers.

"Elrohir," Lalaith breathed, and took another step forward, her hand tentatively reaching out to him, though she could not tell if he wished for the contact.

"In the first minutes after the mortal-, hurt her," Elrohir murmured, "she sent immediately for this. She had brought it with her when she entered the Golden Wood, and kept it ever beside her, like a child's favorite blanket when she slept. It brought her comfort-,"

Lalaith's heart grew heavy within her as she listened to his softly spoken words.

"She told me that it was yours, that it must be returned to you, though she held it ever against her cheek until-,"

Lalaith shuddered at what her kinsman was saying, every word he spoke sinking into her heart like a bitter dart. Was Calassë truly-, truly gone, as his words seemed to say?

"Elrohir," she murmured at last, leaning forward, and catching his arm in her own grip. "Until-?"

Long that word hung between them. The air itself held still as if Arda held its breath, while behind her, the Hobbits below them in the garden remained still and somber, like small, silent statues.

And then he lifted his face, and she found Elrohir's eyes. Eyes that were wet with tears, though rather than the bitter pain she thought she would see, there was light. His emotion, she could see now, that though it brought him to the edge of weeping, was gladness at the sight of her well again, rather than misery for a slain love.

Lalaith drew in a swift breath, hardly daring to hope.

"Until I awakened at last, and drew out of the shadow, just as you have done, my friend," a soft voice came from behind Elrohir, a dear voice that brought a sudden thrill of joy to Lalaith's heart, and Elrohir, drawing in another ragged sigh, managed a grin as he turned and glanced back at Calassë, his beloved who had only just rounded the corner, beaming happily upon the brightening aspect of Lalaith's face. Glorfindel and Ithilwen were strolling beside her, arm in arm, their faces shining with welcome as well, while behind them, Galadriel and Celeborn came silently, smiling with the pride of loving parents, upon Calassë's gladness.

"Calassë!" Lalaith gasped, and with a laugh, the golden haired maiden darted forward, and Lalaith found herself in Calassë's embrace, the two women laughing, even as they cried upon the shoulders of one another.

"I am so glad to see you well!" Lalaith cried as they both pulled back, and gazed with tearful smiles one upon another.

"And I, you," Calassë returned with ragged sigh. "I had hoped so very much that you would awaken and be well again before our wedding tonight. Though had you not, we all of us would have been glad to wait longer, so that you could share our joy."

"Wedding-," Lalaith breathed softly to herself, before she turned upon Elrohir with beaming eyes. He was grinning fully now, and Lalaith could not help but return his expression of merriment. "Tonight?"

"She has been healing since your battle with the servant of Saruman, and your victory over her, two weeks past," Elrohir offered with a grin.

"And your eldest brother and Miriel had no wish to wed before you and Calassë were healed," Ithilwen offered where she stood beaming at Glorfindel's side. "And as tonight is to be our wedding," she and Glorfindel traded a grin, "we thought it would be a joyous thing to share the ceremony."

"A-," Lalaith breathed, her heart bursting with such gladness, that she felt almost as if she would faint from the wave of joy that overcame her. "A triple wedding?"

"Indeed!" Calassë laughed girlishly, before giving Lalaith's hands a final squeeze, then turning toward her betrothed, a gentle smile replacing the playful one at the brief look of worry in his eyes.

"Is all well, my love?" she murmured, her voice gentle as she drew back from Lalaith, and reached for the hand of her beloved, her eyes glowing with such light that Lalaith ached at the happiness she saw in both their faces. "Do not worry. All will be well for us, now."

Elrohir grinned in self consternation at this, and shrugged. "It is difficult not to, having nearly lost you so many times before-,"

"You shall never lose me, Elrohir," Calassë murmured, smiling up into the eyes of he who loved her. "Soon, we shall belong to each other, and I shall be yours, always. Even beyond time."

Lalaith sighed happily at the tenderness between them even as her heart grew still and quiet as a sense of peace fell over her like a warm mantle, and she felt his presence behind her in the moment before she felt the soft scuff of a boot upon stone, and felt his hands, warm and soft, come to rest upon her shoulders, and the warmth of his firm chest against her back. He must been in the Hall of Fire, and come down to her. here. Lalaith drew in a long breath and turned in his embrace, meeting Legolas' dearly familiar features as his eyes smiled down upon her, speaking more powerfully than words his gladness at seeing her well, and awake.

Beyond him, she saw Elrond, a tearful smile upon his face, drawing near along the stone paved portico that led from the steps that descended from the Hall of Fire. Gandalf strode along, a half step behind the Elven lord and at the wizard's side, thumping along, a grin hidden beneath his beard, came Gimli while behind them, came Arwen and Aragorn, arm in arm. Lothirien upon Haldir's arm glided behind the mortal king and his bride. Lothirien noted Lalaith's eyes, and lifted a hand in greeting.

Lalaith smiled at this while beside them, a happy sigh broke past Pippin's lips. She turned her head, and smiled upon the five Hobbits who were rising slowly up the steps.

Legolas' arms squeezed her gently against himself, and Lalaith raised her eyes to meet his smiling gaze. Such a sense of completeness swelled in her heart, that Lalaith had to blink swiftly to hold back her tears. All was as it should be, and the Valar had truly blessed them.

Her husband seemed to sense her feelings, and Legolas' grin only grew broader as gently, he bent and pressed a soft kiss to her brow.

...

The night winds were soft, and pleasantly cool, the music from the soft shadows lilting and merry as Lalaith danced within the arms of her husband, twirling about the glade with the other couples in time to the music.

Not far from them, the four young Hobbits, with Bilbo watching from a bench nearby, were dancing with a group of Elflings. Wilwarin and three other young maidens had claimed Pippin and the three other Hobbits as their partners, and were dancing with them in time to the music. Even Gimli had been coaxed into dancing with a bright eyed little girl who patiently guided the usually heavy footed Dwarf through the steps of the dance, smiling and nodding her encouragement as he followed the steps.

A soft chuckle at her ear brought Lalaith's attention back to her husband, and her eyes turned toward his face.

Legolas' eyes were bright, and a grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he studied something beyond her shoulder that seemed to humor him.

"Look," he murmured softly drawing her briefly to a stop as other couples continued to dance about them, and Lalaith turned to follow his gaze, chuckling softly with him as Elrohir and his new bride Calassë, the last of the three couples who had wedded earlier, dancing together at the edge of the lamplight. They seemed thoroughly engrossed in each other, their steps slow and measured though the music that wafted across the glade was bright and sprightly. Then, as Elrohir, his face bright with joy whispered something in his new bride's ear, Calassë, her eyes beaming, nodded eagerly, slipped her hand into his and together, the newly wedded pair hurried away hand in hand, their faces bright with joy as they faded into the shadows of the path that climbed up toward the cliff where they would be staying in the small cliffside cottage that had been gifted to them for a number of days.

"Glorfindel and Ithilwen were the first to scurry away to his dwelling," Lalaith murmured softly to herself as she turned back, and met her husband's eyes, unconsciously matching the slow swaying of his steps as he resumed their dance though now, their steps too, were slower than before. "Then Elladan and Miriel managed to escaped, and now at last, Elrohir and Calassë have fled away."

"Indeed, as we did, three weeks ago at our wedding," Legolas said, his strong arm scooping about her waist, and drawing her mischievously against himself. His strength attested to his skill as a warrior, and as Lalaith's heart quickened within her, she turned her eyes to find her husband's. A spark danced in his eyes, and a roguish grin tugged at the corners of his lips that only served to stirred her blood all the more.

"Three weeks," she echoed softly, aware now, that he too, was slowly guiding her toward the border of the shadows. As she glanced about, she noted now, that even Arwen and Aragorn had vanished. "And I have lain wounded and sleeping for two of them."

She sighed and glanced up, meeting Legolas' eyes, his playful grin fading slightly at the somber look upon her face.

"What is wrong?" he queried gently, to which she sighed.

"These past weeks should have been a time of delight and joy for us," she breathed. "Forgive me-,"

"For what?" he protested softly. "You did no wrong. You have been wounded and healing. You could not help that! I have wished for nothing these past days, but for you to rest well. Your happiness and joy matter more to me than all other things that I value."

Lalaith's heart grew warm at the light within her husband's eyes at these words.

"Indeed?" she queried, softly biting her lip girlishly.

Legolas grinned at this, and as the music trilled brightly, spun her about in a merry circle.

"Indeed," he echoed, adoring her with a tender grin. "In truth, if it is your wish, we would remain here all night, dancing together in this glade beneath the moonlight, rather than-,"

His words cut off, but Lalaith understood the meaning of his unspoken thoughts and her eyes met her husband's as his gaze sparked and danced.

"Queen Aseaiel and Arwen told me that our things have been moved to a small cottage down near the river, where you and I shall stay until our departure for Eryn Lasgalen-,"

Legolas nodded at this.

Lalaith smiled teasingly, and leaned near, feeling through the cloth between them, the sudden quickened pace of her husband's heart beneath the firm muscles of his chest. "I know the cottage of which they were speaking," she whispered softly, her eyes furtively studying her husband's. "A quaint little dwelling with small, cozy chambers alone in a hidden grotto by the river's edge, yes?"

Legolas nodded.

"And doubtless a warm fire has been already been stoked in the hearth, and the bed awaits us, soft with down pillows, and warm coverings," she guessed softly.

A warm breath washed from Legolas' mouth as these words sank into his heart, and slowly, his steps drew her to a halt where they stood half in shadow, half in torchlight.

"I should like to go there now," she breathed, to which his lips parted softly in an eager smile. "With you."

"Then it shall be so," he murmured his voice soft and warm, his fingers weaving tenderly though her own.

"Come," he urged her softly.

And Lalaith smiled, tightening her fingers trustingly within his grip as she followed his lead away from the lights and the music, on a different path than that which they took, the night of their wedding. Well she knew it, as it wended down and away into the silence of the night through the trees and toward the river that broke at last through the trees, tumbling away down the valley as Legolas guided her along the silver shoreline toward the promised cottage that sat back from the river framed in a small bay of young trees. A welcoming light flickered beyond the lattice of the doorway and the windows as Legolas drew her to a halt upon the stoop, and lifted the latch with a soft clatter, drawing the door open, where a warm, welcoming glow emitted. Yet he did not immediately go in, but rather turned to his wife, a timid, boyish smile upon his face.

As they stood together for a long delicious moment, Lalaith studied her husband's eyes, deep and warm, and dancing with adoration. And though she was not fully certain, as the lamplight flickered within the eyes of her lover, Lalaith thought she could see the figure of a dancing child reflected there. A girl, golden haired, and merry faced.

Lalaith smiled at this, and followed his gentle lead as he guided her across the threshold into the warmth of the little river cottage. He squeezed her hand briefly before he turned to the door and drew it shut with a soft click behind them. Lalaith smiled as he turned to her then, his gaze grown warm and dark. And with a sigh, she melted into the gentle strength of his welcoming embrace.

Beyond the door, the soft whisper of the river continued on into the night, the bright stars washing the world below in joyful, silver light.

...

The morning was half gone, the golden light of dawn warming to the glow of mid-day as Lalaith and Legolas hand in hand, dropped lightly from the last step that descended from the portico into the garden where Arwen's message had bidden them to come. The sweet scent of flowers filling the air about Lalaith with a heady fragrance, the ending of spring, and the coming now, of summer.

Arwen, beneath the light of the sun, sat upon one of the stone benches lining the garden path, and Aragorn stood beside his queen, his hand upon her shoulder as she sang a song of Valinor. A sad sweet lilting song that brought both joy and sorrow to Lalaith's heart as she heard it, and gazed upon the fair queen, the sunlight upon her dark hair.

Aragorn was clad in a woven robe of light colors, his crown upon his head, while his wife was adorned in a flowing gown of royal blue, the cloth catching lightly in the soft breeze that brushed about her.

"Did the message Wilwarin brought say why Arwen sent for you?" Legolas asked gently as the two Elves strode toward the king and queen of Gondor who lifted their eyes at their approach, and smiled.

"Only that they both wished to speak to us this morning," Lalaith returned.

"My friends," Aragorn greeted, noting the Elves' approach at last, and he left his wife's side coming forward and embraced Lalaith first, before he released her, and turned to Legolas. He clasped the Elf's arm as his queen rose, came behind her husband, and caught Lalaith to her, a smile of greeting upon her face, though Lalaith could feel her kinswoman trembling a little, her smile faltering as Arwen pushed her back.

"It has been a week since Elrohir and Elladan and our Lord Glorfindel were wedded to their ladies. And now, you are to leave today for Eryn Lasgalen, and we to Gondor," Arwen murmured, gazing between the two as Aragorn moved to his wife's side, and slipped his arm about her shoulders.

"We will," Legolas answered, as his hand found Lalaith's back, his hand trailing lightly over the curve of her spine, to which she could not help but smile a little as warm trails of sunlight trickled over her skin.

"We will come to Minas Tirith as often as we may," Lalaith promised.

"And we to you when duty permits," Arwen smiled as she squeezed Lalaith's free hand. "As well as to our brothers, here."

Lalaith smiled at the easy way Arwen spoke of Elladan and Elrohir as brothers to them both, but her smile swiftly faded as Arwen turned to Aragorn, glanced meaningfully to him, and softly murmured, "It is time now."

"Ah," Aragorn nodded with a slow sigh, and with movement that spoke of reluctance, he removed from around his neck, the white gem of the Evenstar that Arwen had gifted to him before the beginning of the Fellowship's journey.

"This is to be yours now, Lalaith," Arwen murmured, her soft voice quavering briefly as Aragorn with a small, trembling smile, fastened it gently around Lalaith's neck as she glanced to Arwen, stunned.

"But-," Lalaith's heart caught upon a beat as she glanced down, seeing the white of the gem resting against the silver cloth of the gown she wore. As long as she had known, Arwen had worn it, and it had been given as a sign of love and promise to Aragorn. "It was a gift from you to Aragorn-,"

"And now a gift to you, from us both," Aragorn finished softly.

"It is fitting that it be gifted to one who will-," Arwen's words faltered, and Aragorn's hand quickly found her own, his glance one of attentive concern.

"To one who will indeed sail to the Blessed Realm," Arwen continued as she rallied at Aragorn's touch, and smiled again at Lalaith. "And most fitting that it should go to the younger of Elrond's daughters. I shall not go with him now, for mine is the choice of Lúthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter."

"Arwen," Lalaith breathed, her heart wrenching as a sudden jagged rift tore through her soul at realization of Arwen's words.

"Lalaith," Arwen returned, her eyes growing warm with pained sweetness as she drew from her husband's side, and took Lalaith's hands again in her own. "You must do something for me."

"Anything," Lalaith returned, feeling the tight trembling in her throat.

"You must tell mother-, our mother, that I love her, that wherever I go, I will always love her," Arwen commanded softly. "Will you tell her that?"

"I will," Lalaith returned, her throat tight. And at these words, Arwen once again drew her into her arms.

"I have always been proud to have you as my dearest sister. Remember me, always," Arwen whispered against her hair.

And at this, Lalaith lost the battle with her tears.


	64. Chapter 62

Lalaith Elerrina-Child of the Stars - Epilogue

December 1, 2005

Submitted By Lalaith-Elerrina

Epilogue

A warm, sweetly scented fragrance of late summer flowers wafted from the high snow-tipped mountains to the east as Lalaith stood at Hasufel's head, stroking his copper brown neck slowly, listening to the soft whisper of flowing water as the Bruinen slipped by them, down the long sloping bank from where their company stood.

The horse, a gift from Rohan, was fully saddled, and a warm riding habit of midnight blue was cast about her shoulders for the journey she would make with her husband and the retinue of Elves from Eryn Lasgalen and Lothlórien as well as the king's company of Gondorian knights, Men and Elves all clad for travel with their horses beside them. Here, upon the knoll above the ford in the river where Arwen had once held off the nine wraiths of Sauron to save a weakened Frodo, the Hobbits would part from their company. The Hobbits' path would take them now down the hill to the ford of the river and up the bank again away into the trees and to the lands beyond, while she and her company would turn south, following the road that twined along the foothills of the Hithaiglir that stretched away to the south, their lofty heads still brushed with white as wisps of cloud clung to their peaks like white fluttering banners marching away down toward the gap of Rohan where their company would part ways again, the Elves and Gimli riding northward toward Lothlórien and Eryn Lasgalen, Gimli keeping his promise to explore Fangorn with them, and the Men on to Gondor riding on through Rohan toward their own homeland.

Haldir and Lothirien stood side by side among the others, Lothirien's hand upon the growing swell of her stomach as he husband's hand cupped her small shoulder in a supportive gesture. Lalaith glanced at Lothirien briefly. The glow of motherhood rested brightly upon Lothirien's countenance, and as their eyes met, the two women traded a warm smile.

Legolas stood also at Lalaith's side, a light brown riding cloak about his own firm shoulders and, Rana's reins clutched lightly in his hands. Gimli stood a short space away, Arod at his side as the Dwarf humphed softly and shifted his weight glancing at the ground, and moving a gloved hand to dab lightly at the corner of one eye. Elladan and Elrohir with their young wives, gentled eyed Miriel her golden red hair twined in a plait and sweet, beautiful Calassë with her own golden hair left freely hanging, stood near Lalaith also. And now and again, Lalaith traded glances with her two kinsmen, though none spoke. They stood somber and silent, having already given their farewells as they watched Aragorn and Arwen bidding farewell to Elrond, as Galadriel and Celeborn stood back, their countenances somber as well, and drawn down.

Near to the bank where the path dipped down toward the placidly flowing river stood the Hobbits, the four younger all clad in rich cloaks gifted to them by the Elves, and with ponies, two, Frodo's and Pippin's, gifted to them from the Men of Gondor, which they would ride upon as they journeyed back to The Shire. Sam stood near the head of his beloved Bill, and Merry was brushing gently at the nose of his own pony, Stybba, a gift from Rohan, as Hasufel was, though his eyes, as the eyes of the other Hobbits were fixed upon the riders of Gondor soon to depart. Bilbo stood beside Gandalf who was leaning thoughtfully upon his staff, the wizard and elder Hobbit slightly apart from the younger four. Bilbo would be remaining in Imladris while his kin rode away to the Shire, Lalaith knew. And as she studied the small aging hero, Bilbo's eye caught hers. The dear little Hobbit smiled at her glance, and for a moment, she smiled as well.

Yet her heart grew heavy again as she turned her eyes back and watched Elrond embracing his daughter Arwen, making no effort to hide his tears, the words between them quiet and unheard, drowned in the soft whisper of the Bruinen as it slid, glinting golden in the sunlight down and away toward the west and south.

"Though we bid you farewell Lalaith, it is not so painful a thing, for we know that we shall not be bidden to offer you an everlasting farewell one day. Shall we ever see Arwen again, after she is-, gone to that which awaits the souls of Men?" Elladan muttered, his voice heavy, his eyes down, his face tight with pain at the scene before him. "Shall there be any hope that one day our family will be together always?"

Miriel moved nearer to Elladan at this, and slipped her slender arm silently around her husband's waist.

"I believe we will, one day," Elrohir answered softly, though his own face, turned to his brother, reflected Elladan's pain. "Elves and Men would not be made so close kin were there no reason for it, were there no glory to be shared between our kin beyond the end. When Arda is remade, and Elves and Men and all that are good, dwell together in the bliss beyond bliss."

Elrohir turned his eyes upon his beloved at this, his gaze grown tender as he drew Calassë close to himself, and pressed a tender kiss to her smooth brow.

"Such hope Finrod spoke of," Elladan sighed, a soft catch in his voice.

"Estel we called him once," Lalaith murmured, her eyes fixed upon Aragorn as Elrond with visible reluctance, and poorly concealed pain, drew back from his daughter, and turn to the Man who had claimed her love.

"Care for her well," Elrond commanded gently, his voice strong and deep as ever, though it shook a little as he spoke. "Make her happy. In all that you do, honor her."

"I will, my Lord, Elrond," Aragorn promised, bowing low before the noble son of Eärendil who had fostered him from infancy. But such a farewell was not enough for Elrond, and he stepped forward and drew the King of Gondor into a close embrace which they held for a long moment before drawing back from each other, tears in both men's eyes, their hands clapped firmly upon the shoulders of the other.

"And hope he brought," Lalaith continued, feeling her jaw setting tight as Galadriel and Celeborn stepped forward to bid Aragorn and their granddaughter farewell.

"To whom?" Elladan choked softly.

"To Men," Lalaith answered, "And Elves. To both kindreds. To Dwarves and the Pheriannath, to all that strives for good in Middle-earth." Her soft voice was furtive as she touched Elladan upon the arm, her face uplifted to his, as his eyes, pleading and pained, met hers. "That we cannot yet see beyond the end, does not mean there is nothing there. Such is the purpose of estel, Elladan! That we can love mortals, that they can love us, that such friendships as we share with them can form between us, there is a reason! Raw hope is all that we have, but it is enough, is it not? We shall see her again. We shall see both of them again, beyond the ending of Arda. I am certain of it."

Elladan said nothing though he sighed, and placed his hand upon Lalaith's shoulder as Arwen, her hand in Aragorn's cast a final glance at her brothers. Sadness and joy danced behind the surface of her eyes before the Queen of Gondor turned away, and gracefully swung into the saddle of her cream white horse. But her husband did not immediately mount his own horse. And with the reigns of Brego, his own faithful mount in his hands, Aragorn's own gaze came to rest upon the Hobbits. He nodded briefly to his queen and the waiting riders and turned away from them to move slowly toward Frodo and the others.

Wordlessly, Elladan dropped his hand from her shoulder, and with a grin and a nod to their mortal kinsman, both he and Elrohir and their ladies stepped back as if they sensed this farewell to be for Lalaith and Legolas as well.

Aragorn's eyes met her own and grew soft as if he could sense the deepest of her thoughts as Lalaith and Legolas, stepped forward toward him and the Hobbits.

"_Namárië, mellyn nin_," Frodo murmured with a sigh, his warm blue eyes looking up into their faces as they paused before him.

"_Navaer, gwedeir nin_," Lalaith returned, her eyes finding his before a soft sound caused her to look up. Gimli, as well as Gandalf had drawn nearer to where the three stood though Bilbo had held back, and as Lalaith gazed about upon the dear, familiar faces of her friends, especially when her eyes trailed over the four Hobbits who stood side by side in their gear and traveling cloaks and came to rest upon the sweet gaze of Pippin, a heavy lump formed in her throat that seemed to push its way upward until it dissolved into wetness, and spilled out her eyes in tears.

Behind her, from among the group of Elves from Eryn Lasgalen and Lothlórien, Lothirien shifted her weight slightly, a soft sound came from her lips, and she whispered something furtively, joyfully to Haldir though Lalaith did not turn her head.

"Well," Gimli grunted at last, breaking the silence between all of them as he harrumphed softly in his throat and brushed a glove furtively across his eyes before slapping it noisily at his side. "Here we are."

"Indeed," Gandalf returned, leaning upon his staff and smiling over their group, his twinkling eyes meeting Lalaith's. "Here we are at last, when all danger is past, and the purpose of our Fellowship fulfilled. And everything we set out to do, has come to pass, and there is reason for joy. Why then, these tears?"

The last question was asked as a gentle sigh, for he as all of them, knew the answer. And Lalaith, as she glanced about her, from her beloved Legolas, to Gimli, across the Hobbits, and to Gandalf and Aragorn, their eyes as well, were all dimmed with mist. Beyond them, but not far, she caught Bilbo's eye where he stood alone, his cane in his hand, and he smiled softly, sadly to her. She dipped her head to the ground, her heart too full to speak.

"Is there no purpose for this bond of love that has formed between us all, if it is to be severed forever after this brief hour of life passes, and never formed again beyond the world? Gandalf sighed softly, and Lalaith lifted her eyes, her heart twinging strangely at his words.

"Ah, my friends," Gandalf sighed and gripped his staff, tipping his head as his smile traveled over them, his gaze lingering upon the stalwart Hobbits for whom he had always felt such esteem. "I shall not say we should not weep, for not all tears are evil. Though sad is our parting, there is reason to hope."

No more was said, but light rested upon her heart, as warm as sunlight upon her skin. The four Hobbits studied Gandalf with lightened countenances and trembling smiles, and Gimli ducked his head toward the ground softly harrumphing as he mopped a hand across his face.

Gandalf sighed then again, and smiled once more upon them all before he squared his aged shoulders, and drew back.

"Well," Gandalf called out, his voice merry now, and carrying over the Elves and Men about them. "The sun is growing higher, and you all have far to go!"

Elrond at these words, strode near to Gandalf, a taut, though kindly smile upon his face glancing between the companies of travelers, the four small Hobbits who were to follow one path, and the Elves and Men who were to go another.

"Our people wish you a fair journey, and may Elbereth's stars shine gladly upon you," Elrond spoke, his voice carrying over them all, though his eyes rested gently upon Frodo and his three companions. Here, he lifted his head, his eyes trailing away from the Hobbits, and rested warmly upon Lalaith for a moment.

"And may we meet in joy, again, one day."

These last words he spoke as his eyes trailed to Arwen before his voice broke, and he contented himself with a brief bow to the companies, his hand upon his heart in blessing and fairwell which gesture all present returned.

The Hobbit's turned to their horses at this, with sighs and dragging feet all around, each bidding farewell to Bilbo, Frodo lingering a long moment on his uncle's shoulder, before they mounted their ponies and urged their small mounts away from Bilbo, clopping down the fork in the trail that led slowly down the bank of the river. With a soft splash, the hooves of Frodo's pony, christened Strider, entered the water followed by the others, all of them waving back now and again as their ponies picked their way across the shallow ford of the Bruinen.

Lalaith, feeling a gentle pull upon her heart, caught up her skirts and hurried to the edge of the rill the more easily to watch them as their ponies picked their way across the placid stream. After a moment, she felt a presence at her side, and turned, seeing Lothirien beside her, smiling as she linked her arm through Lalaith's. Legolas stood a pace behind the women, Rana's and Hasufel's reins in his hands.

"I felt something," Lothirien murmured in Lalaith's ear as the Hobbits' ponies splashed out of the river onto pebbled bank, their hooves clattering softly upon the stones that grew dark and dappled with the silver spray cast up by the ponies' careful steps.

For a brief moment, Lalaith turned, and Lothirien's eyes were filled with a bright secret.

"I felt my little Halmir move, Lalaith!" Lothirien whispered. "Only just a moment ago!"

Lalaith's eyes grew bright at this, and she reached her hand across, clasping her friend's hand before she turned her eyes back to the Hobbits as they made their way in single file upon the backs of their patient little ponies up the low trail that eased between the high ledges where the trees stood in stately rows as soldiers, standing guard to honor their passing.

Frodo, at the head of the small column of four, glanced back at the last moment before the trees swallowed him, and met her eyes.

Dear Frodo, Lalaith murmured softly as she raised her hand in farewell, and smiled at the Hobbit's gentle grin. The stalwart little Ringbearer, who had passed through so much, and sacrificed so greatly to defeat evil.

A ragged sigh broke past her lips as Frodo, his eyes ever upon her, faded away into the trees. And with that, Lalaith turned her gaze upon the honest faced little Hobbit riding behind him who had come so long ago through the gates looking frightened and unsure at Aragorn's side, seeking news of his injured friend, Frodo.

Faithful Sam, she mused. Without him, Frodo could never have achieved all that he had, and the good that had been brought about, would not have been. Before his own faithful pony Bill slipped into the trees, Sam too, turned and briefly met her eyes, casting her a fleeting grin before the trees blocked her view of him.

And sweet Merry, she sighed again, who had suffered so much with her as prisoners of the Uruks, and had so fearlessly ridden to Gondor with the Rohirrim to find Pippin and her. Merry too turned back, caught her eye and grinned. He lifted his hand and waved merrily before he too, was swallowed in the trees at the crest of the small ridge.

And brave, blessed Pippin. True hearted friend. Her heart quavered with a bittersweet pang as Pippin with whom she had passed through so much turned his sweet face toward her and met her eyes. But he did not slip into the trees right away as the others had. For a moment, he drew his own pony to a halt and paused, his eyes upon her where Lalaith stood, her hand raised in farewell. Almost he seemed ready to turn back to her as he gulped, tears wet upon his cheeks even as he smiled bravely to her.

"Go, dear Pippin," Lalaith whispered under her breath, her hand waving now a little. "Go back to your kin and friends who have long been bereft of your light heart. There is joy and gladness there waiting for you. Go. Be happy."

And as if he heard her words, Pippin drew in a deep breath, nodded to her one last time, and urged his pony gently one. And then-, he was gone, nothing more than the soft damp tracks of four small ponies marching up the bank into the trees to show that they had ever passed that way. A wind wafted softly down the river valley, stirring the green branches of the trees, and flashing the leaves in scattering shades of sunlight.

At Lalaith's side Lothirien gave her arm a squeeze, and drew away, turning back to Haldir, who smiled at his lady's approach.

Lalaith turned as well, and met Legolas' eyes where he stood, smiling warmly upon her. Her dearest friend, her trusted companion, her husband, her lover, the whole of her world.

A smile drew up the corners of her mouth as well as she turned and made her way to where he stood, waiting for her, a small grin drawing up the corners of his mouth. Drawing Hasufel's reins into her own hands, she smiled up into the warm, adoring eyes of her beloved.

"Let us go home to Eryn Lasgalen," she murmured softly. And to this, Legolas smiled gently and nodded as he reached for her hand, and clasped it warmly within his own.

...

"And thus it was. A Fourth Age of Middle-earth began. And the Fellowship of the Ring, though eternally bound by friendship and love, was ended." ~Frodo

...

Though I know in writing this story I have not been strictly faithful to the story Tolkien wrote, I hope that I have done justice to the essence of that great man's work, and the values and messages that he taught. My intent has always been to write in such a way that those who read my work might stand a little taller, treat others a little better, and be a little happier because of what they've read. I hope that I have done that for you.

...

_I Melain berio le. Ná Elbereth veria le. Ná elenath dín síla erin rád o chuil lín._

The Valar keep you. May Elbereth protect you. May her stars shine on the path of your life.


End file.
